MAURICE    MAETERLINCK 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 
E.  C.  Hefff 


MAURICE 
MAETERLINCK 


BY 

EDWARD  THOMAS 


WITH    EIGHT    ILLUSTRATION'S 


8KCOND    EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,    MEAD    AND    COMPANY 

1912 


DEDICATED     TO 

IRENE   AND   HUGH   McARTHUR 


2087332 


NOTE 

I  CAN  here  only  express  in  the  usual  manner 
my  indebtedness  and  gratitude  first  to 
M.  Maeterlinck  himself  for  his  kind  permission 
to  quote  from  his  books,  and  to  M.  Paul 
Lacomblez,  Mercure  de  France,  and  M.  Eugene 
Fasquelle  for  confirming  it ;  also  to  Miss  Laurence 
Alma  Tadema,  Messrs.  George  Allen,  Methuen  & 
Co.,  Duckworth  &  Co.,  William  Heinemann,  and 
Hodder  &  Stoughton  for  permission  to  quote  from 
the  English  translations.  The  following  list  will 
make  clear  the  details  of  my  indebtedness. 

Published  by  M.  PAUL  LACOMBLEZ  : 

"  Serres  Chaudes,"  "  La  Princesse  Maleine,"  "  Les 
Aveugles,"  "  Les  Sept  Princesses,"  "  L'Intruse,"  "  Trois 
Petits  Drames  pour  Marionnettes "  ("  La  Mort  de 
Tintagiles,"  "  Interieur,"  "Alladine  et  Palomides "), 
"Les  Disciples  a  Sais  et  les  Fragments  de  Novalis," 
"  L'Ornement  des  Noces  Spirituelles  de  Ruysbroeck 
1'Admirable,"  "  Pelle"as  et  Melisande,"  "Aglavaine  et 
Selysette,"  "Ardiane  et  Barbe  Bleu,"  "Soeur  Beatrice." 

MERCURE  DE  FRANCE  : 

"  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles." 


viii  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

M.  EUGENE  FASQUELLE: 

"Joyzelle,"  "  Monna  Vanna,"  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  "  Le 
Trdsor  des  Humbles,"  "La  Sagesse  et  la  Destine'e," 
"  La  Vie  des  Abeilles,"  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli,"  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  "L' Intelligence  des  Fleurs." 

MESSRS.  WALTER  SCOTT,  LTD.  : 

"  Pelleas  and  Melisanda  "  and  "  The  Sightless,"  trans- 
lated by  Laurence  Alma  Tadema. 

MESSRS.  GEORGE  ALLEN  : 

"Aglavaine  and  Selysette,"  with  an  introduction  by 
J.  W.  Mackail,  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro  ;  "  The 
Treasure  of  the  Humble,"  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro, 
with  introduction  by  A.  B.  Walkley ;  "  Wisdom  and 
Destiny,"  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro  ;  "  The  Life  of  the 
Bee,"  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro  ;  "  Sister  Beatrice,"  and 
"Ardiane  and  Barbe  Bleue,"  translated  by  Bernard 
Miall;  "The  Buried  Temple,"  translated  by  Alfred 
Sutro  ;  "  Joyzelle,"  translated  by  A.  Teixeira  de  Mattos  ; 
"  Monna  Vanna,"  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro  ;  "  The 
Double  Garden,"  translated  by  A.  Teixeira  de  Mattos  ; 
"  Life  and  Flowers,"  translated  by  A.  Teixeira  de 
Mattos. 

MESSRS.  METHUEN  &  Co. : 

"  The  Blue  Bird,"  translated  by  A.  Teixeira  de  Mattos  ; 
"  Mary  Magdalene,"  translated  by  A.  Teixeira  de 
Mattos ;  "  The  Disciples  at  Sais,  etc.,"  translated  by 
F.  V.  M.  J.  and  U.  C.  B. 

MESSRS.  DUCKWORTH  &  Co. : 

"  Three  Little  Dramas "  ("  The  Death  of  Tintagiles," 
translated  by  Alfred  Sutro  ;  "  Interior,"  translated  by 
William  Archer ;  "  Alladine  and  Palomides,"  translated 
by  Alfred  Sutro), 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK  ix 

MR.  WILLIAM  HEINEMANN: 

"The  Princess  Maleine"  and  "The  Intruder,"  trans- 
lated by  Gerard  Harry,  with  Introduction  by  Hall  Caine. 

MESSRS.  H ODDER  &  STOUGHTON  : 

"  Ruysbroeck  and  the  Mystics,"  translated  by  Jane  T. 
Stoddart. 

Among  critical  and  biographical  studies  of  M. 
Maeterlinck  which  I  have  read  I  must  express 
my  particular  indebtedness  to  the  following  : 

JULES  LEMA!TRE  :  "  Impressions  de  theatre,"  8e  serie. 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT  :  "  Le  Livre  des  Masques." 

GEORGES  LENEVEU  :  "  Ibsen  et  Maeterlinck." 

EDOUARD  SCHURE  :  "  Precurseurs  et  Revoke's." 

RENE  DUMIC  :  "  Les  Jeunes." 

GERARD  HARRY  :  "  Maurice  Maeterlinck." 

MADAME  MAETERLINCK  :  "  Maeterlinck's  Methods  of 

Life  and  Work  "  (Contemporary  Review,  November 

1910). 

WILLIAM  ARCHER  :  "  Study  and  Stage." 
ARTHUR  SYMONS  :     "  The    Symbolist    Movement  in 

Literature,"  "  Plays,  Acting,  and  Music." 
A.  B.  WALKLEY  :  "  Frames  of  Mind." 

I  have  also  had  the  help  of  Mr.  Gordon 
Bottomley,  Mr.  A.  Martin  Freeman,  Mr.  H.  Hooton 
and  Mr.  A.  D.  Williams. 

EDWARD  THOMAS. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

I.  INTRODUCTION  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE       I 

II.  FIRST  POEMS:  "  SERRES  CHAUDES"        .       .      1 8 

III.  FIRST  PLAYS  :  "  LA  PRINCESSE  MALEINE," 
"LES  AVEUGLES,"  "L'INTRUSE,"  "LES  SEPT 
PRINCESSES" 38 

iv.    "PELLE"AS  ET  MELISANDE"      .        .        .        .61 

V.      "  TROIS  PETITS  DRAMES  POUR  MARIONNETTES  "        75 
VI.      EARLY  PLAYS 95 

VII.  PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  :  RUYSBROECK,  EMER- 
SON, AND  NOVALIS 107 

VIII.      LATER  POEMS  :"  QUINZE  CHANSONS "        .          .123 

ix.  "AGLAVAINE  ET  SELYSETTE"  .   .   .   .135 

X.      FIRST   ESSAYS:  "  LE    TRESOR  DES  HUMBLES"; 

"LA  SAGESSE  ET  LA  DESTINEE  "        .          .      148 

XI.      THREE  PLAYS:    "SO2UR    BEATRICE,"    "ARDIANE 

ET   BARBE   BLEUE,"   AND   "jOYZELLE"         .      177 

XII.      "LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES"   .         _,_. .  .  .      IQ2 

XIII.      "LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI" 208 

xiv.    "MONNA  VANNA"      .  .  223 


xii  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

PACK 

xv.    "LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN" 335 

XVI.     "  ^INTELLIGENCE  DES   FLEURS "     .          .         .  254 

xvn.    "L'OISEAU  BLEU"  .       .       .       .     '.       .  268 

xvin.    "MARY  MAGDALENE" 287 

XIX.     CONCLUSION     .          r>   >        V,        .                    .  307 

INDEX 315 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK    ....       Frontispiece 

Camera  portrait  by  E.  O.  HOPPE. 

FACING  PAGE 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK  AS  A  YOUNG  MAN    .       .       8 

Photograph  by  Dover  Street  Studios. 

LES  QUATRES  CHEMINS 16 

SAINT  WANDRILLE.    Ruins  of  the  Abbey  ...      64 

Photograph  by  L.  LEVY. 

MONSIEUR  AND  MADAME  MAETERLINCK  .        .        .    148 

Photograph  by  Dover  Street  Studios. 

ABBEY  OF  SAINT  WANDRILLE,  The  Refectory  .        .    200 

Photograph  by  LA  C.  P.  A. 

ABBEY    OF    SAINT    WANDRILLE,    The     Refectory 

(interior) 272 

Photograph  by  NEURDEIN  FRERES. 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK    .       .    ~  .       .        .        .308 

Photograph  by  Dover  Street  Studios. 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


INTRODUCTION  A3SD  BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK,  Tolstoy,  and 
Ibsen  are  read  in  England  by  men  and 
women  who  care  little  or  nothing  as  a  rale  for 
the  literature  of  the  Continent,  because  all  three 
make  appeals  which  are  not  solely  artistic.  Maeter- 
linck is  die  youngest,  and  his  appeals  are  the  most 
numerous  and  diverse.     He  is  a  moralist,  and  we 
like  moralists;  and  there  is  a  special  reason  why 
he  should  reach  English  ears  as  a  moralist     He 
knows  our  literature;  he  can  read  Chaucer;  he 
has  admired  Shakespeare  and  been  his  disciple; 
he  has  translated  a  play  of  John  Ford's ;  above 
all,  his  circle  of  influences  as  moralist  includes 
Coleridge,  Carlyle,  Emerson,  and   Raskin.      His 
"  Life  of  the  Bee,"  again,  attracts  us  because  it 
appears  to  reconcile  Science  and  Poetry,  which  is 
a  reconciliation  we  have  long  discussed,  fimmetn, 
doubted,  and  desired.    His  essay  on  riding  in  a 
motor-car  pleases  for  a  similar  reason  ;  we  like  to 
t 


2  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

see  that  mechanical  inventions  do  not  destroy  ad- 
venture and  romance,  and  we  applaud  this  essay 
as  we  do  Mr.  Kipling's  "  McAndrew's  Hymn  "  and 
"  Traffics  and  Discoveries,"  etc.  "  The  Sources  of 
Spring,"  "  Old-fashioned  Flowers,"  and  the  like 
flatter  our  fondness  for  writing  about  the  country. 
He  gets  home  upon  us  also  with  his  praise  of 
boxing.  Then  his  "  Blue  Bird  "  allows  itself  to  be 
so  presented  on  our  stage  that  it  rivals  the  cele- 
brated "  Peter  Pan,"  and  even  resembles  it  ;  it  is 
also  sentimental,  indefinitely  mysterious  and  signi- 
ficant. Even  his  early  plays  have  a  melancholy, 
a  romance  of  unreality,  a  morbidity,  combined  with 
innocence,  which  piques  our  indulgence.  He  has 
no  irony  to  put  us  on  the  defensive.  Trans- 
lated into  English,  he  never  astonishes  us,  and  we 
have  an  admirable  and  almost  complete  series  of 
translations  by  Messrs.  Sutro,  Archer,  Teixeira  de 
Mattos,  Bernard  Miall,  and  Gerard  Harry. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck,  or  Mooris  Maeterlinck,  as 
he  spelt  it  in  1886,  was  born  at  Ghent  on  August  29, 
1862.  He  came  of  a  Flemish  family  which  had 
been  settled  in  the  neighbourhood  for  six  centuries, 
and  the  name  of  Maeterlinck  is  said  to  have  been 
first  earned  and  taken  by  a  bailiff  who  in  a  year 
of  famine  gave  corn  to  the  poor.  As  a  child  he 
lived  at  Oostacker,  on  the  bank  of  a  canal  con- 
necting Ghent  with  Terneuzen  ;  so  near  was  the 
water  that  the  ships  seemed  to  be  sliding  through 
the  garden  itself.  His  formal  education  he  had 
at  Ghent  from  the  Jesuits  of  the  College  of 
St.  Barbe,  whose  seven  years'  tyranny,  says 


Madame  Maeterlinck,  marred  the  sweet  hours  of 
his  youth.     There  he  met  his  friends,  Charles  van 
Lerberghe   and   Gregoire    Le    Roy,   who   became 
poets,   and   with   them   he   subscribed    and    even 
contributed    to    La   Jeune  Belgique,   a   new   and 
nationalistic   literary   review.      According   to   the 
wish  of  his  family  he  read  for  the  Bar,  and  at  the 
University  came  into  contact  with  Emile  Verhaeren, 
a  man  seven  years  older,  now  a  notable  poet  and 
"  the   most  eminent,  along  with  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck, of  those  modern  authors  who  feel  in  Flemish, 
and  write  in  French."     But  like  Rodenbach,  says 
M.    Edouar    Schure,    Maeterlinck    had    dreamed 
alongside  the  sleeping  waters  of  Belgium  and  in 
the  dead  cities,  and,   though  his   dream   did   not 
become  a  paralysing  reverie,  thanks  to  his  vigorous 
and  healthy  body,  he  was  already  troubled  in  such  a 
way  that  he  was  unlikely  to  accept  the  conditions 
of  the  Bar  and  the  bourgeois  life.     He  had  already 
written  triolets  and  prose  when  he  went  to  Paris 
for  the  first  time,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four.     This 
visit,  made  professedly  in  the  interest  of  his  legal 
studies,  but  in  the  company  of  Gregoire  Le  Roy, 
confirmed   his    literary   avocation    and    ambition. 
The  two  men  entered  the  artistic  and  literary  life 
of  Paris,  and  met  Villiers  de  1' Isle- Adam  and  others 
of  the  very  modern  writers.     It  was  Le  Roy,  now 
turning  from   art  to   poetry,   who   read   to  some 
of  these  men  "  The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,"  a 
prose  tale,  and  afterwards  introduced  Maeterlinck, 
the    author.       From    such     meetings    grew    La 
Plttade,  a  short-lived  review,  which  printed  "  The 


4  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Massacre  of  the  Innocents  "  and  some  of  the  poems 
collected  in  "  Serres  Chaudes,"  and  is  otherwise 
unforgotten  for  its  part  in  the  history  of  symbolism. 
The  law-student  returned  to  Ghent  after  little  more 
than  six  months  and  began  to  practise  at  the  Bar. 
But  Rodenbach  had  introduced  him  to  La  Jeune 
Belgique,  and  he  had  contributed  more  poems  to 
it.  The  year  1889  saw  inseparable  events — the 
publication  of  Maeterlinck's  poems,  "  Serres 
Chaudes,"  and  his  farewell  to  the  Bar.  Madame 
Maeterlinck  mentions  "  a  very  accurate  mind  and 
a  special  gift  of  practical  good  sense "  among  his 
qualifications  for  the  legal  profession.  The  en- 
thusiastic Gerard  Harry  says  that  he  lost  with 
"  triumphant  ease "  the  first  and  last  cases  in 
which  he  pleaded,  and  gives  as  one  reason  the  fact 
that  his  voice  was  impracticably  harsh  and  thin, 
and  as  another  his  excessive  shyness  and  solitary, 
taciturn  habits  of  meditation. 

He  had  now  apparently  nothing  before  him 
but  authorship.  He  was  far  less  a  journalist  then 
than  he  is  to-day.  He  continued  to  live  at  Oos- 
tacker,  and  turned  from  his  writing  only  to  tend 
his  bees,  to  work  at  a  lathe,  to  walk,  row,  skate, 
or  cycle.  Madame  Maeterlinck  says  that  he 
lived  at  home  because  he  was  indifferent  to  his 
material  surroundings,  Gerard  Harry  that  he  was 
there  surrounded  by  reproductions  of  pictures  by 
Burne-Jones,  Odilon  Redon,  and  Georges  Minne. 
At  intervals  he  was  even  compelled  to  attend  to 
material  surroundings,  as  a  member  of  the  Civic 
Guard  of  Ghent ;  but  he  allowed  his  musket  to  rust 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  5 

until  the  night  before  an  inspection.  From  his 
window,  at  least,  he  could  see  a  country  which 
could  easily  suggest  the  scene  of  his  early  play, 
"  Les  Sept  Princesses  "  :  "A  dark  land  of  marshes, 
of  pools,  and  of  oak  and  pine  forests.  .  .  .  Between 
enormous  willows  a  straight  and  gloomy  canal, 
on  which  a  great  ship  of  war  advances." 

In  the  same  year  as  "  Serres  Chaudes,"  1889, 
appeared  "  La  Princesse  Maleine,"  after  having  been 
privately  printed,  to  the  number  of  thirty  copies, 
by  the  author  himself  on  a  hand-press.  A  Belgian 
critic  announced  that  the  play  made  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  the  stage.  A  French  critic  in  Le 
Figaro,  Octave  Mirbeau,  said  that  no  one  could 
be  more  unknown  than  the  author,  but  that  his 
book  was  a  masterpiece,  "  comparable — shall  I  dare 
say  it  ? — superior  in  beauty  to  the  most  beautiful 
in  Shakespeare."  In  opposition  to  this  heavy- 
handed  compliment  a  sting  was  easily  added  to 
the  phrase,  "  Belgian  Shakespeare,"  and  some  one 
explained  that  the  play  was  Shakespeare  because 
it  was  made  with  scraps  of  Shakespeare.  Gerard 
Harry  retorted  that  the  characters  of  Shakespeare 
are  marionettes  in  comparison  with  Hjalmar  and 
Maleine.  Maeterlinck  was  disturbed  by  inter- 
viewers, became  tired  and  sick  of  them,  and 
comforted  his  outraged  modesty  by  himself  calling 
the  play  "  Shakespearterie."  Maeterlinck's  modesty 
or  shyness  is  made  impressive  by  many  witnesses. 
Gerard  Harry  quotes  a  letter  accepting  [an  invita- 
tion to  dinner  on  condition  that  he  is  received 
without  ceremony,  adding :  "  I  am  a  peasant.'' 


6  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Later  on,  Georges  Leneveu  says  that  Maeterlinck 
barricades  himself  against  all  indiscretion  and 
curiosity,  detests  notorfety,  is  indifferent  to  the 
representation  of  his  work,  avoids  the  cackling, 
the  flattery,  all  the  small  change  of  celebrity.  At 
the  end  of  a  first  night  he  was  modest,  simple, 
altogether  without  display  in  dress  or  manner. 
His  gestures  were  gentle  with  reflection,  his  voice 
low  and  rarely  heard.  He  had  no  pride  of  success, 
but  an  air  at  once  uneasy  and  detached,  as  if  tired 
of  being  there.  His  deep  blue  eye  was  cold  and 
mournful,  like  a  mirror  that  retains  the  images  of 
indefinite  and  impalpable  things,  as  Barbey  d'Au- 
revilly  says  the  eyes  always  are  of  those  who 
look  more  within  than  without.  His  brow  was 
deep  and  square  and  shone  pale.  He  made  the 
observer  think  of  his  own  untranslatable  words  : 

Sous  1'eau  du  songe  qui  s'el&ve 
Mon  Ame  a  peur,  mon  ime  a  peur. 

The  same  writer  says,  by  way  of  contrast,  that 
the  playwright  keeps  bees  and  teaches  a  dog  to 
sing ;  he  calls  him  a  sportsman,  a  man  always 
getting  about,  a  great  drinker  of  ale — a  great  boy, 
a  good  fellow,  a  Bohemian.  Here  may  perhaps 
be  discerned  the  writer  in  praise  of  the  sword, 
the  fist,  and  the  automobile,  the  friend  of  the 
bull-dog,  and  the  creator  of  Tylo. 

After  "  La  Princesse  Maleine"  came  "  LTntruse  " 
and  "Les  Aveugles,"  acted  in  1891,  and  "Les 
Sept  Princesses."  His  translation  from  the 
Flemish  of  "  L'Ornement  des  Noces  Spirituelles  " 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  7 

of  the  mediaeval  mystic,  Ruysbroeck  1'Admirable, 
also  appeared  in  1891  ;  and  his  Introduction  to 
this  book  first  made  public  his  interest  in  Plato, 
Plotinus, S. Dionysus  the  Areopagite,  Jacob  Behmen, 
Novalis,  and  Coleridge.  Herein  also  he  proclaims 
Villiers  de  1'Isle  Adam  and  Stephane  Mallarm6 
as  the  greatest  French  mystics  of  the  day.  Four 
years  later  he  published  a  translation  of  Novalis's 
"  Disciples  at  Sais "  and  the  fragments,  with  an 
Introduction  where  he  says  that  here  we  find 
ourselves,  not  upon  Ruysbroeck's  dim  blue  peaks 
of  the  soul,  but  in  an  atmosphere  of  crystal  on 
the  sharp  and  often  perilous  ridges  of  the  in- 
tellect, but  sometimes  in  the  sweet  shade  of  re- 
cesses beneath.  He  applies  a  similar  figure  to 
Emerson,  speaking  of  the  irregularly  rounded  and 
more  humble  claims  of  the  heart  in  his  essays. 
Seven  of  these  had  been  translated  into  French 
by  I.  Will,  and  were  published  in  1894  with  a 
Preface,  full  of  a  feeling  of  discipleship,  by  Maeter- 
linck. He  was  himself  the  maker  of  the  French 
version  of  John  Ford's  "  Tis  Pity  she's  a  Whore," 
acted  in  the  same  year  and  published  in  the 
next.  Meantime  he  had  written  more  plays. 
"  Pelleas  et  Melisande "  was  put  on  the  stage 
by  Lugne"  Poe  and  Camille  Mauclair  in  1893.  It 
was  loudly  praised.  The  play  was  "  absolutely 
clever,"  even  to  a  critic  who  could  say  of  "  Sept 
Princesses  "  only  that  it  was  a  thin  volume  pub- 
lished at  Brussels  by  Lacomblez.  The  next  year 
was  the  year  of  the  "  three  little  plays  for  marion- 
ettes "— "  Alladine  et  Palomides,"  "  Inte"rieur,"  and 


8  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

"  La  Mort  de  Tintagiles."  M.  Camille  Mauclair 
now  coupled  him,  as  did  the  opinion  of  a  multi- 
tude, with  Ibsen.  He  had  then  written  the  book 
of  poems  and  the  eight  plays  which  are,  whether 
his  best  or  not,  of  all  his  writings  most  purely 
and  decidedly  his  own,  works  of  a  singular 
trembling  intensity,  apparently  conceived  and 
executed  in  a  solitude  without  a  sound.  Five  or 
six  years  afterwards,  referring  to  these  early  plays 
as  revealing  "the  disquiet  of  a  mind  that  has 
given  itself  wholly  to  mystery,"  he  seemed  to 
apologize  for  them  as  representing  the  "  instinctive 
feelings"  of  his  art  rather  than  the  thoughts  of 
"real  life."  Mauclair  even  at  this  date  points 
out  the  duality  of  Maeterlinck's  mind,  which  is 
equally  fit  for  creations  at  once  concrete  and 
arresting,  and  for  abstract  speculation.  He  goes 
on  to  say  that  the  great  man  seems  to  prefer 
discursive  metaphysics  to  the  creative  literature 
which  has  given  him  his  fame,  and  that  he  will 
end  by  giving  up  plays  and  works  of  imagination, 
taking  to  the  work  of  a  moralist  exclusively. 
What  he  has  already  done  promises  an  artistic 
metaphysician,  whose  philosophy  will  be  like 
Carlyle's  in  its  images.  He  has  no  intellectual 
affinity  to  Shakespeare,  but  he  does  make  us 
think  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

Maeterlinck  now,  in  1896,  left  his  native  country 
for  good,  and  settled  in  Paris.  Gerard  Harry  tells 
us  that  he  had  hoped  in  vain  for  a  place  in  the 
public  service  which  would  waste  little  of  his  time, 
and  would  make  him  independent.  In  spite  of 


MAL'KICE   .MAETERLINCK    AS    A   YOUNU   MAN 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  9 

his  promised  immortality,  and  his  dangerous 
proximity  to  Shakespeare  and  Marcus  Aurelius, 
he  lived  a  secret,  intellectual  life  in  Paris,  inac- 
cessible to  all  but  a  few. 

The  year  1896  was  in  other  ways  a  memorable  one 
in  his  life,  for  then  were  published  "  Le  Tresor  des 
Humbles,"  his  first  volume  of  Essays,  and  "  Agla- 
vaine  et  Selysette."  Madame  Maeterlinck  quotes 
a  letter,  in  which  he  says  that  Aglavaine  brought 
him  "a  new  atmosphere,  a  will  to  happiness,  a 
power  of  hope."  Henceforth,  he  continues,  Agla- 
vaine's  light  will  direct  him  in  a  "  serene,  happy, 
and  consoling  course,"  away,  it  may  be  supposed, 
from  the  dim,  blue-lit  marshlands  of  the  early 
plays,  and  from  that  conception  of  life  which  he 
himself,  in  an  essay  in  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli," 
calls  "  not  healthy."  Edouar  Schure,  seeing  a 
resemblance  in  him  to  the  sick  Rodenbach, 
author  of  "  Bruges  la  Morte,"  sees  also  "  a 
stronger  spirit  in  a  vigorous,  healthy  body,"  a 
fundamentally  simple  and  strong  affirmative  man 
under  the  mask  of  an  exquisite  and  a  decadent. 
Gerard  Harry  describes  his  "  sturdy,  full-fleshed 
Flemish  body,  such  as  Jordaens  loved  to  paint," 
and  the  portraits  show  us  a  thick-lipped,  thick- 
necked  man,  who  appears  to  lack  nothing  of  a 
virile  equipment,  unless  it  be  humour.  This  is 
the  man,  the  painter  obviously  of  the  entirely 
Flemish  scenes  in  "  Le  Massacre  des  Innocents," 
almost  inconceivable  as  the  poet  of  "  Serres 
Chaudes  "  and  the  dramatist  of  "  Les  Sept  Prin- 
cesses "  and  "  Alladine  et  Palomides "  j  this  is 


io  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

the  man  whom  Aglavaine,  the  first  of  his  heroines 
with  a  will,  leads  out  into  the  twilight — whether 
morning  or  evening  twilight  is  not  clear. 

"  Le  Tre"sor  des  Humbles,"  it  should  be  noticed, 
is  dedicated  to  the  actress  Madame  Georgette 
Leblanc,  now  Madame  Maeterlinck.  It  marks  by 
no  means  an  escape  from  the  world  of  "  Les  Sept 
Princesses,"  and  no  great  step  from  the  Intro- 
duction to  Ruysbroeck's  book  ;  but  some  of  its 
chapters  had  already  been  printed  in  the  maga- 
zines, and  its  tone  is  that  of  a  man  who  wishes 
to  be  heard,  and  does  not  appear  in  public  by 
accident.  Here,  writes  Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  Maeter- 
linck "  dropped  his  disguise."  But,  as  if  to  show 
that  he  could  in  safety  turn  back  and  look  at 
the  enchanted  forest  behind  him,  he  published  in 
this  same  year,  1896,  another  little  book  of  poems, 
"  Douze  Chansons,"  now  altered  to  "  Quinze 
Chansons  " — poems  in  which  we  see  and  suspect 
nothing  whatever  of  the  full-fleshed  and  powerful 
Flemish  body. 

"  Le  Tre"sor  des  Humbles "  was  acclaimed  like 
"  Pelleas  et  Me"lisande "  ;  it  had  not  to  wait  for 
admiration.  It  showed  Edouar  Schure',  for  ex- 
ample, one  of  the  most  grave  and  spiritual  of 
critics,  that  the  playwright  had  a  will  and  an 
ideal,  that  he  had  faith  in  a  transcendent  and 
absolute  truth.  Towards  this  truth  he  saw  Maeter- 
linck travelling  undismayed  by  the  horrors  of 
reality  or  the  phantoms  of  dreams.  He  points 
with  satisfaction  to  the  essayist's  "  initiators " — 
Plato,  Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Marcus  Aurelius, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  11 

Dionysius  the  Areopagite,  among  the  ancients  ; 
Behmen,  Ruysbroeck,  mystics  of  the  Middle  Age 
(a  term  very  much  extended  to  include  Behmen)  ; 
Spinoza,  Kant,  and  Schopenhauer,  modern  philoso- 
phers ;  Novalis,  Emerson,  Carlyle,  Coleridge, 
Eliphas  Levi,  and  Amiel,  those  intuitive  thinkers 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  apostles  of  the  soul  and 
knights  of  the  spirit,  against  triumphing  positivism 
and  materialism.  Schure"  saw  in  this  book  and 
in  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destine'e  "  not  only  reflections 
of  these  mystics  and  philosophers,  but  something 
more  than  doctrine — an  experience  of  the  inner  life, 
proof  of  a  subconsciousness  in  touch  with  an  in- 
visible world,  proof  that  each  man  is  a  little  world 
surrounded  by  a  magnetic  atmosphere  emanating 
from  his  passions,  his  feelings,  and  his  habitual 
ideas.  ..."  La  Sagesse  "  followed  "  Le  Tre"sor  " 
in  1898.  It  was  dedicated  to  Georgette  Leblanc 
as  the  result  of  her  collaboration  in  thought  and 
example :  he  had  only  to  listen  to  her  words  and 
follow  her  life  with  his  eyes  when  he  wrote  the 
book  ;  for  to  do  so  was  to  follow  "  the  words,  the 
movements,  the  habits,  of  wisdom  itself."  Even 
"  La  Sagesse  "  caused  some  distress  among  those 
who  had  hailed  a  mystic  prophet  in  the  author  of 
"  Le  Tresor."  He  had  forsaken  the  heights,  they 
lamented,  for  the  sad  plains  of  the  earth ;  he  who 
saw  visions  now  attended  to  earthly  things. 

"La  Vie  des  Abeilles  "  came  in  1901.  It  was 
exquisite  and  it  was  precise ;  it  was  science  and 
poetry  not  only  together  but  allied.  This  was  the 
full  light  of  day,  of  every  day.  There  was  no  need 


12  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

to  be  a  mystic,  or  to  know  that  word,  in  order  to 
admire  this  joyous  eloquence,  this  sunny  and 
real  world.  "  Truly,"  says  Gerard  Harry,  after 
pointing  to  the  happiness  of  Maeterlinck's  union 
with  Georgette  Leblanc,  "  henceforward  he  looks 
upon  life  less  desperately  and  less  fearfully."  "  I  am 
a  peasant,"  said  he,  explaining  his  dislike  of  cere- 
mony years  before.  Among  his  bees  he  might 
seem,  to  an  enthusiastic  reader,  a  solid,  meditative 
peasant  to  whose  serenity  has  been  added  curiosity 
without  disturbance.  Such  a  reader  would  be 
delighted  to  see  that  Maeterlinck  is  indifferent  to 
opera  and  lyrical  drama.  "  Pelleas  et  Me"lisande  " 
as  a  lyrical  drama,  with  music  by  Debussy,  was 
first  played  in  1902  ;  but  he  took  no  interest  in  it — 
not  only,  it  would  appear,  from  an  objection  to  the 
mishandling  of  his  work,  but  because  he  knows 
and  cares  nothing  for  music. 

The  year  of  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles "  was  also 
that  of  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe  Bleue "  and  "  Sceur 
Beatrice,"  the  first  a  gorgeous  and  allegorical 
rendering  of  the  story  of  Blue  Beard,  the  second 
a  legendary  play  which  might  have  been  written 
to  illustrate  the  philosophy  of  "  Le  Tre*sor  des 
Humbles."  They  are  the  clear  and  firm  work 
of  the  mature  Maeterlinck,  and  they  point  for- 
ward to  "  Joyzelle " ;  but  at  the  same  time,  they 
point  back  to  the  period  of  the  early  plays,  where, 
with  some  difference  of  treatment,  a  more  languid 
and  misty  development,  they  would  have  been  quite 
in  place. 

"  Le  Temple  Enseveli "  was  published  in  the  year 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  13 

after  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles,"  in  1902.  It  has  been 
seen  that  it  contains  a  quiet  adult  criticism  of  the 
early  plays.  Its  subjects  are  "  The  Mystery  of 
Justice,"  "The  Evolution  of  Mystery,"  "The 
Kingdom  of  Matter,"  "The  Past,"  and  "  Luck£_ 
Obviously  they  are  the  work  of  a  man  of  intellect 
and  much  reading.  If  "  Le  Tresor"  is  a  book 
which  was  at  least  written  deliberately  in  order 
that  it  might  be  read, "  Le  Temple  Enseveli "  might 
have  been  delivered  in  the  form  of  lectures.  It  is 
the  work  of  a  man  who,  recluse  or  not,  is  in  contact 
with  the  world.  It  alarmed  the  more  religious  of 
his  mystical  admirers.  Schure  bids  him  beware ! 
He  is  tending  to  a  purely  materialistic  view  and  a 
denial  of  the  divine  law,  which  is  to  destroy  eternal 
justice,  the  invisible  world,  and  God,  the  soul's 
sun,  towards  which  he  was  steering  his  uncertain 
vessel.  ...  It  might  have  seemed  that  Maeter- 
linck was  advancing  towards  a  social  and  not  a 
solitary  position  as  a  writer,  willing  to  consider 
whatever  might  concern  his  contemporaries,  a 
possible  contributor  of  a  weekly  or  monthly 
causerie ;  not  only  able  to  write  beautifully  on  a 
broomstick,  but  perhaps  willing  to  do  so,  should  he 
be  asked. 

"  Monna  Vanna,"  also  belongs  to  1902.  It  is  a 
clear  and  solid  play,  relating  in  the  main  to  history 
and  to  this  world.  Here  was  no  need  of  marion- 
ettes to  act  the  still,  drugged  parts  of  afflicted 
men  and  women.  The  play  is  as  intense  as  it 
is  real ;  the  single  interest  exacts  from  each  of  the 
five  principal  characters  the  deepest  truth  and 


14  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

nothing  else.  Not  more  than  half,  perhaps,  is 
unmistakably  the  work  of  Maeterlinck,  so  free 
is  it  from  mannerism  ;  all  save  the  conclusion  is 
unmistakably  the  work  of  a  master.  The  most 
striking  proof  of  his  individuality  is  our  feeling 
that  the  story  could  not  have  been  chosen  or 
invented  by  another  man,  and  that,  had  it  been, 
the  development  from  the  entry  of  Vanna  into 
Prinzivalle's  tent  must  have  been  entirely  different. 

"Joyzelle,"  a  play  of  1903,  is  a  picturesque 
romantic  allegory.  It  belongs  to  the  same  class 
as  "  Sceur  Beatrice"  and  "  Barbe  Bleue,"  and,  like 
them,  seems  a  by-product  of  Maeterlinck's  energy. 
It  has  not  the  enchanted  atmosphere  of  the  early 
plays,  or  the  reality  of  "  Monna  Vanna."  It  is 
fanciful,  and  has  even  a  kind  of  finished  hardness, 
as  of  a  tour-de-force  which  has  not  been  able  to 
concentrate  all  of  the  author's  powers. 

In  the  next  year  came  "  Le  Double  Jardin,"  and, 
after  a  similar  interval,  "  Life  of  Flowers,"  two 
collections  of  descriptions,  essays,  and  criticisms 
which  had  nearly  all  been  translated  in  England 
or  America  before  they  were  gathered  into  books. 
Their  subjects  include  a  favourite  dog,  duelling 
and  boxing,  the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo,  a  motor- 
car, chrysanthemums,  immortality,  Rome,  the  psy- 
chology of  accident,  "King  Lear,"  and  the  manu- 
facture of  scents.  They  are  brilliant,  eloquent,  and 
ingenious.  They  are  always  perfectly  his  own,  but 
show  the  writer  in  a  public  character,  always  in 
touch  with  an  audience,  and  more  and  more  purely 
intellectual. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  15 

"  L'Oiseau  Bleu "  was  published  in  England  in 
1909  and  in  France  in  1910.  Gerard  Harry  tells 
us  that  Maeterlinck,  in  unmeasured  terms,  refused 
to  allow  Coquelin  Aine"  to  adapt  this  play  "  to  the 
taste  of  a  boulevard  public."  It  had  already 
appeared  on  the  stage  in  Moscow,  had  made  the 
fortune  of  the  Theatre  des  Arts,  and  has  since  been 
played  by  fifty-nine  companies  in  the  provinces  of 
Russia.  Except  that  it  is  for  children,  it  belongs 
to  the  class  of  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe  Bleue,"etc.  "In 
none  of  his  works,"  says  Mr.  Herbert  Trench, 
"  has  Maeterlinck  blended  so  happily  scientific 
observation  with  the  dream-work  of  the  poet.  .  .  . 
Maeterlinck  has  thus  put  a  whole  philosophy  into 
a  gay  fairy-tale,  that  may  be  understood  and  laughed 
over  by  a  child."  It  is  the  work  of  a  master  of 
fancy,  of  the  theatre  and  of  the  public. 

"  Mary  Magdalene "  appeared  in  an  English 
translation  in  1910.  It  is  the  long-expected 
successor  to  "  Monna  Vanna,"  and,  like  that,  has 
been  refused  a  licence  for  the  English  stage.  It 
has  been  executed  with  the  whole  of  Maeterlinck's 
mature  power  and  its  best  is  his  best  work  ;  but  it 
is  incomplete.  He  is  now  nearing  fifty,  and  his 
popularity  has  never  been  greater.  Nearly  all  his 
books  are  multiplied  and  repeated,  by  new  editions 
and  translations,  into  many  languages.  Always 
independent,  money  could  only  add  ease  and 
opportunities  for  gratifying  minor  tastes.  He 
spends  the  winter  at  Quatre  Chemins,  near  Grasse, 
in  the  south  of  France  ;  the  summer  at  the  ancient 
Benedictine  Abbey  of  Saint  Wandrille,  in  the 


16  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Seine-In  fe"rieure,  where  there  is  an  inscription 
upon  one  of  the  walls  which  Gerard  Harry  thinks 
might  be  the  writer's  device  : 

O  beata  solitude  ! 
O  sola  beatitudo  ! 

There  Madame  Maeterlinck  plays  "  Macbeth," 
in  her  husband's  translation,  while  he,  it  is  said, 
smokes  a  pipe  in  peace  as  well  as  in  solitude. 
The  pipe,  according  to  Gerard  Harry,  contains  a 
denicotinised  herb  ;  for  thus,  by  a  piece  of  heroism 
discovered  by  his  hero-worshipper,  Maeterlinck 
circumvents  his  unconquerable  craving  for  tobacco 
in  his  hours  of  work.  "  By  wise  disposition,"  says 
Madame  Maeterlinck,  "  he  has  reduced  his  weak- 
ness, economised  his  strength,  balanced  his  faculties, 
multiplied  his  energies,  disciplined  his  instincts." 
Yet  he  continues  to  write.  He  is  early  to  rise 
and  go  out  to  his  garden  and  his  bees,  for  which 
his  liking  is  now  near  thirty  years  old.  Two 
hours,  always  exactly  two  hours,  of  work  follow. 
Then  he  goes  out  again,  canoeing,  motoring,  cycling, 
or  walking.  He  reads  in  the  evening  and  "  goes 
to  bed  in  good  time."  The  work  of  those  two 
hours  is  prepared  easily  and  quietly  during  the 
pleasures  and  other  duties  of  the  day.  Madame 
Maeterlinck  compares  him  taking  up  his  work  to 
a  child  leaving  its  games  and  going  on  with  them 
as  soon  as  allowed — an  innocent  and  ambiguous 
comparison.  She  implies  that  his  work  is  sub- 
consciously matured  and  methodically  put  on  paper, 
and  that  his  natural tranquillityand  the  surroundings 


BIOGRAPHICAL  OUTLINE  17 

and  conditions  of  his  life  have  long  been  felicitously 
combined ;  and  she  says  it  might  seem  that  the 
mysterious  powers  have  woven  between  him  and 
the  world  a  veil  which  allows  him  a  clear  vision 
whilst  yet  himself  invisible,  as  they  have  favoured 
him  by  the  gift  of  a  home  not  less  wonderful  than 
the  castles  which  he  imagined  for  Alladine  and 
Selysette  and  Maleine. 


II 

FIRST  POEMS : " SERRES  CHAUDES " 

WHEN  Maeterlinck  was  a  young  man  of 
twenty-four  he  met  Villiers  de  1'Isle 
Adam  and  other  symbolists  in  Paris.  He  became 
a  symbolist  himself.  His  early  poems,  some  of 
them  published  during  that  visit  to  Paris  and 
collected  afterwards  with  others  in  "Serres  Chaudes," 
are  symbolist  or  they  are  nothing  ;  his  early  plays 
were  accepted  as  symbolist.  It  is  not  obvious 
what  is  here  meant  by  symbolism,  but  it  is  not 
merely  the  use  of  symbols.  "  It  is  all,"  writes 
Mr.  Symons,  "  an  attempt  to  spiritualize  litera- 
ture, to  evade  the  old  bondage  of  rhetoric, 
the  old  bondage  of  exteriority.  Description  is 
banished  that  beautiful  things  may  be  evoked, 
magically.  .  .  ."  Writing  of  the  sonnets  of  Gerard 
de  Nerval  (1808-1855)  he  says  that  here,  "for  the 
first  time  in  French,  words  are  used  as  the  in- 
gredients of  an  evocation,  as  themselves  not  merely 
colour  and  sound,  but  symbol."  Probably  it  is 
meant  that  they  are  used  solely  as  an  evocation, 
and  deliberately  so.  One  of  the  examples, 
"  El  Desdichado,"  has  something  like  the  magic 

18 


FIRST   POEMS:    "  SERRES   CHAUDES"     19 

of  the  not  quite  intelligible  song  of  Taliesin, 
beginning  : 

Primary  chief  bard  am  I  to  Elphin, 

And  my  original  country  is   the   region  of  the  summer 

stars ;  .  .  . 

I  was  with  my  Lord  in  the  highest  sphere, 
On  the  fall  of  Lucifer  into  the  depth  of  hell ; 
I  have  borne  a  banner  before  Alexander  .  .  . 

for  it  ends :  "  Am  I  Eros  or  Phoebus  ?  .  .  .  Lusig- 
nan  or  Biron  ?  My  brow  is  still  flushed  from  the 
queen's  kiss ;  I  have  been  dreaming  in  the  grotto 
of  the  syren  .  .  .  and  twice  have  I  victoriously 
crossed  Acheron  playing  on  the  lyre  of  Orpheus, 
sometimes  in  the  tone  of  a  saint's  sighing  and  at 
other  times  of  a  fairy's  cry."  It  is  hardly  necessary 
to  say  that  the  words  do  not  take  us  farther  or 
deeper  than  certain  phrases  of  older  poets  and 
even  prose-writers,  like  : 

And  battles  long  ago  ; 
or — 

Merry  it  was  in  Silver  Wood ; 
or — 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

or,  "  The  famous  nations  of  the  dead " ;  or, 
"  Apame,  the  King's  concubine,  the  daughter  of 
the  admirable  Bartacus,  sitting  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  King,  and  taking  the  crown  from  the  King's 
head,  and  setting  it  upon  her  own  head "  ;  or, 


ao  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

"  And  the  world  shall  be  turned  into  the  old 
silence  seven  days."  We  know  that  the  words  of 
poets  and  of  others  who  can  handle  words  often 
mean  much  more  than  the  same  mean  in  another 
place  or  at  another  time.  We  are  almost  certain 
that  their  words  have  often  come  to  mean  some- 
thing different  from  what  was  consciously  present 
in  their  minds  when  they  wrote,  and  often  more 
vast.  Maeterlinck  knew  this,  and  expressed  it  in 
1890,  in  a  criticism  now  printed  in  Gerard  Harry's 
"  Maurice  Maeterlinck."  "  Is  it  not,"  he  asks,  "  by 
examining  what  he  has  not  consciously  intended 
that  we  penetrate  the  essence  of  a  poet?  The  poet 
premeditates  this,  premeditates  that,  but  woe  to 
him  if  he  does  not  attain  something  else  beside ! " 
But  the  symbolists,  having  come  late  into  this 
world,  are  more  self-conscious  than  men  before 
them,  and  it  appears  to  be  their  task  to  produce 
consciously  the  strange  echoing  and  branching 
effects  of  magic  which  came  to  earlier  men  straight 
from  the  gods.  Mr.  F.  Y.  Eccles  puts  it  in  this 
way  in  the  brilliant  Introduction  to  his  "  Century 
of  French  Poets  "  : 

"  Of  the  many  tendencies  imputed  to  symbolism 
this  is  the  most  characteristic — out  of  an  acuter 
perception  of  what  all  poets  have  always  known, 
that  words  are  insufficient  if  their  power  is  bounded 
by  their  meaning,  emerged  an  audacious  doctrine 
which  branded  their  representative  function  as  in- 
ferior, and  sought  to  shift  the  poetical  interest  from 
what  they  signify  to  what  they  may  suggest.  In 
the  Parnassian  system  description  was  paramount, 


FIRST   POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES"      21 

and  feeling  sprang  from  it  immediately :  the 
emotion  which  symbolism  pursues  bears  no  con- 
stant relation  to  the  objects  represented  or  the 
ideas  expressed  ;  rather  it  aims  at  the  recovery  of 
vanished  moods  by  curious  incantations,  by  the 
magical  use  of  verbal  atmosphere.  To  fashion  a 
true  likeness  of  the  material  world  it  holds  a  vain 
and  illusory  undertaking  :  it  values  sights,  sounds, 
scents,  and  savours  for  their  secret  affinities  with 
states  of  the  soul.  .  .  ." 

It  is  a  little  unkind  to  words  to  suppose  that 
they  can  be  bounded  by  their  meaning,  but  appar- 
ently the  symbolist  must  insist  that  his  words  are 
not  only  not  so  bounded,  but  have  a  further  sig- 
nificance which  is  quite  precise  ;  otherwise  there 
were  no  difference  between  the  old  and  the  new. 
It  is  a  dangerous  difference.  For  a  poem  of  the 
old  kind  has  a  simple  fundamental  meaning  which 
every  sane  reader  can  agree  upon  ;  above  and 
beyond  this  each  one  builds  as  he  can  or  must.  In 
the  new  there  is  no  basis  of  this  kind  ;  a  poem 
means  nothing  unless  its  whole  meaning  has  been 
grasped.  Take,  for  an  example  of  the  old,  a 
seventh-century  Chinese  poem  from  Mr.  Cranmer- 
Byng's  "  Lute  of  Jade."  .  It  is  called  "  Tears  in  the 
Spring  "  : 

Clad  in  blue  silk  and  bright  embroidery, 
At  the  first  call  of  spring  the  fair  young  bride, 
On  whom  as  yet  Sorrow  has  laid  no  scar, 
Climbs  the  Kingfisher's  Tower.     Suddenly 
She  sees  the  bloom  of  willows  far  and  wide, 
And  grieves  for  him  she  lent  to  fame  and  war. 


22  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

This  is  explicit  enough  and  amazingly  condensed ; 
but,  even  so,  the  many  elements  in  it  combine,  and 
then  fall  away  and  leave  something  more  than  the 
sum  of  them  all,  and  that  something  over  gives 
the  poem  its  great  beauty,  which  we  may  call 
symbolical  if  we  like,  but  not  symbolist.  A  sym- 
bolist might  have  used  the  same  scene,  but 
probably  with  this  difference,  that  he  would  have 
drawn  no  conclusions  from  it ;  he  would  have  left 
it  to  make  its  own  effect.  In  the  same  way  a 
symbolist  poet  might  have  seen  the  Highland 
reaper  as  a  symbol,  but  would  not  have  interpreted 
the  symbol  like  WordswtTrth.  But,  look  at  "Ennui" 
from  Maeterlinck's  "  Serres  Chaudes  "  : 

"  The  careless  peacocks,  the  white  peacocks, 
have  fled  ;  the  white  peacocks  have  fled  from  the 
ennui  of  waking.  I  see  the  white  peacocks,  the 
peacocks  of  to-day,  the  peacocks  in  rows  during 
my  sleep,  the  careless  peacocks,  the  peacocks  of 
to-day,  arriving  lazily  at  the  sunless  lake.  I  hear 
the  white  peacocks,  the  peacocks  of  ennui,  awaiting 
lazily  the  sunless  days." 

This  is  a  dangerous  poem  for  those  who  think 
that  symbolist  poems  must  be  judged  by  new 
standards.  There  is  no  meaning  upon  which  all  of 
them  would  agree.  The  first  wish  of  the  tolerant 
reader  seeking  for  profound  and  designed  sig- 
nificance must  be  for  a  dictionary  to  explain  "  pea- 
cocks," especially  "  white  peacocks."  He  will  be 
all  the  more  disturbed  by  his  lack  of  compre- 
hension, because  probably  he  would  like  to  think 


FIRST   POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES"     23 

of  white  peacocks ;  but  this  the  words  will  not 
allow.  The  birds  have  to  be  examined  like  an 
heraldic  device.  The  most  he  can  do  is  to  think — 
perhaps  upon  a  suggestion  from  a  remembered 
picture — of  a  large  grey  house  with  white  peacocks 
on  the  empty  terraces,  and  over  all  a  Sunday 
desolation  of  ennui  and  silence.  Nor  is  this  poem 
the  most  difficult — not  to  understand,  but  to  meet 
in  such  a  way  that  understanding  is  possible.  For 
the  poem  seems  to  contain  interpretation  as  well 
as  a  symbol ;  so  does  "  Fauves  Lasses,"  with  its 
"  yellow  dogs  of  my  sins,"  "  squint-eyed  hyenas  of 
my  hates,"  "  flocks  of  temptations."  "  Chasses 
Lasses "  is  a  poem  written  in  cypher,  and  con- 
taining a  glossary  of  its  own  terms  : 

"  My  soul  is  sick  to-day ;  my  soul  is  sick  with 
absence  ;  my  soul  has  the  sickness  of  silence  ;  and 
my  eyes  light  it  with  tedium. 

"  I  catch  sight  of  hunts  at  a  standstill,  under  the 
blue  lashes  of  my  memories  ;  and  the  hidden 
hounds  of  my  desires  follow  the  outworn  scents. 

"  I  see  the  packs  of  my  dreams  threading  the 
warm  forests,  and  the  yellow  arrows  of  regret 
seeking  the  white  deer  of  lies. 

"  Ah,  God  !  my  breathless  longings,  the  warm 
longings  of  my  eyes,  have  clouded  with  breaths 
too  blue  the  moon  which  fills  my  soul." 

If  this  method  is  characteristic  of  the"  decadence  " 
and  modern  France,  it  is  not  new.  Is  it  not  upon 
the  same  model  as  the  song  which  Musidorus,  in 
Sidney's  "  Arcadia,"  sang  to  Pamela,  "  to  show 


24  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

what  kind  of  a  shepherd  he  was."  This  is  the 
song  : 

My  sheep  are  thoughts,  which  I  both  guide  and  serve ; 

Their  pasture  is  fair  hills  of  fruitless  love  : 
On  barren  sweets  they  feed,  and  feeding  starve  : 

I  wail  their  lot,  but  will  not  other  prove. 
My  sheep-hook  is  wan  hope,  which  all  upholds  : 
My  weeds,  desire,  cut  out  in  endless  folds  : 
What  wool  my   sheep  shall  bear,  while   thus  they 

live, 
Dry  as  it  is,  you  must  the  judgment  give. 

Then  Pamela  turns  to  Mopsa  and  says  :  "  Take 
heed  to  yourself,  for  your  shepherd  can  speak 
well.  .  .  ."  This  passed  in  Sidney's  time  for  the 
language  of  emotion,  as  that  of  "  Chasses  Lasses  " 
does  in  our  own.  Both  appear  to  be  purely  fanci- 
ful writing  according  to  a  fashion,  and  more  can- 
not be  said  of  them  than  that  the  exposure  of  the 
symbols  has  given  the  lines  a  naive  decorative 
value. 

It  is  harder  to  speak  of  the  poems  which  are 
not  thus  translated  for  us  by  the  one  man  who 
has  their  secret,  Maeterlinck  himself.  It  would 
be  simple  to  accept  them  all  together  as  a  not 
obscure  symbol  of  something  familiar— youth  ;  or 
to  take  the  words  of  them  as  bounded  by  their 
customary  meaning,  the  words  that  recur,  most  of 
them,  many  times — sadness,  weariness, ennui,  melan- 
choly, pallor,  feebleness,  immobility.  These  are 
truly  mots  propres,  the  right  words  not  sought 
but  inevitable  and  significant,  like  Shelley's 
"winged,"  or  Ruskin's  "entirely,"  The  poems 


FIRST   POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES "      25 

seem  to  represent  a  weariness,  a  melancholy,  an 
unrest  that  belong  to  the  writer  only  when  he 
writes.  These  feelings,  when  they  are  profound, 
are  not  so  eager  to  be  quickly  told.  The  pallor  and 
melancholy  are  parts  of  the  writer's  refinement,  and 
are  unconsciously  chosen,  partly,  perhaps,  out  of 
respect  for  the  pictures  by  Burne-Jones  on  his 
walls,  and  partly  as  an  easy  method  of  distinguish- 
ing himself  from  a  vile  world  not  in  the  least 
melancholy  and  pale,  or  desiring  to  be  so.  If  there 
is  anything  here  to  be  called  sorrow  it  is  no  more 
passionate  than  wall-paper,  and  is  not  due  to  loss 
of  faith,  fortune,  wife,  health,  leg,  teeth,  or  the 
like,  but  to  this  excessive  refinement  in  protest 
against  those  whom  he  despises,  and  in  imitation 
of  the  admired.  In  the  absence  of  information 
it  is  impossible  to  be  certain,  but  it  seems  likely 
that  most  of  "  Serres  Chaudes  "  is  due  to  Paris  and 
the  literary  life.  The  little  of  his  still  earlier  work 
which  I  have  seen  has  nothing  of  this  character. 
"  The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,"  a  perfectly 
Flemish  piece  of  objective  realism,  is  as  unlike  as 
possible,  and  this  may  have  been  written  before 
the  visit  to  Paris,  though,  whether  it  was  or  not, 
its  lucidity  and  entire  lack  of  display  of  emotion 
make  it  a  significant  contrast  with  the  languor  and 
confusion  of  "  Serres  Chaudes." 

When  referring,  years  later,  in  "  The  Buried 
Temple"  to  his  early  plays,  Maeterlinck  spoke  of 
them  as  the  work  of  "  some  obscure  poetical  feel- 
ing "  within  him  which  believed  in  a  hostile  and 
encompassing  fate,  and  he  claimed  that,  with  the 


26  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

sincerest  poets,  a  distinction  has  often  to  be 
made  "  between  the  instinctive  feelings  of  their  art 
and  the  thoughts  of  their  real  life."  What  else 
is  this  than  what  Keats  wrote  in  the  dedication  of 
"  Endymion  "  when  he  was  at  the  same  age  as  the 
Maeterlinck  of  "  Serres  Chaudes  "  ?  "  The  imagina- 
tion of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  mature  imagination 
of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a  space  of  life 
between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment.  .  .  ." 
In  a  young  man  of  the  middle  class  living  an  easy, 
sheltered  existence,  chiefly  in  our  modern  cities, 
as  it  is  so  natural  and  common  to  do,  the  brave 
fervour  of  youth  is  often  girt  up  neither  by 
experience  in  the  past  nor  by  a  sufficient  object  in 
the  present ;  it  must  spend  itself,  and  it  does  so 
upon  little  things,  borrowed  things,  which  are 
presently  seen  for  what  they  are,  and  share  with 
the  fervour  the  same  neglect  and  even  contempt. 
The  poem  called  "  Serres  Chaudes "  expresses  the 
sense  of  strangeness  and  vanity  which  comes  to 
this  state  when  life  is  at  once  too  languid  and  too 
difficult  because  it  is  all  cloistered  within  the  brain  : 

"  O  hothouse  in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  with 
your  doors  for  ever  closed  ;  and  all  the  things  under 
your  dome,  with  their  counterparts  in  my  soul ! 

"  The  thoughts  of  a  hungry  princess  ;  the  weari- 
ness of  a  sailor  in  the  desert  ;  a  brass  band  playing 
under  the  windows  of  incurables. 

"  Seek  the  warmest  corners  !  Such,  a  woman 
fainting  on  a  harvest  day.  Postillions  are  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  hospital ;  while  in  the  distance 
passes  an  attendant,  once  an  elk-stalker, 


FIRST   POEMS:    "  SERRES  CHAUDES"     27 

"  Look  closely,  by  moonlight !  How  out  of  place 
is  everything  here !  Such,  a  mad  woman  before 
the  justices ;  a  man-of-war  under  full  sail  on  a 
canal ;  night-birds  perching  on  lilies ;  a  noontide 
death-knell  (there,  under  those  bell-glasses  !)  ;  a 
station  for  the  sick  in  the  open  fields  ;  the  smell  of 
ether  during  a  day  of  sunshine. 

"  Ah,  God  !  God  !  when  shall  we  have  the  rain  and 
the  snow  and  the  wind  in  the  hothouses  ?  " 

Here,  too,  "  with  their  counterparts  in  my  soul," 
if  not  a  complete  explanation,  is  a  timid  admission 
of  the  need  of  one.  But  the  piece  is  hardly  more 
than  a  catalogue  of  symbols  that  have  no  more 
literary  value  than  words  in  a  dictionary.  It  ignores 
the  fact  that  no  word,  outside  works  of  information, 
has  any  value  beyond  its  surface  value  except  what 
it  receives  from  its  neighbours  and  its  position 
among  them.  Each  man  makes  his  own  language 
in  the  main  unconsciously  and  inexplicably,  unless 
he  is  still  at  an  age  when  he  is  an  admiring  but 
purely  aesthetic  collector  of  words  ;  certain  words — 
he  knows  not  why — he  will  never  use ;  and  there 
are  a  hundred  peculiarities  in  his  rhythms  and  group- 
ings to  be  discovered.  In  the  mainly  instinctive 
use  of  his  language  the  words  will  all  support  one 
another,  and,  if  the  writing  is  good,  the  result  of  this 
support  is  that  each  word  is  living  its  intensest  life. 
The  first  few  words  of  a  work  of  art  teach  us, 
though  we  do  not  know  it  at  the  time,  exactly 
how  much  value  we  are  to  give  to  all  the  rest, 
whether  they  are  to  be  words  only,  or  images,  or 
spirits.  They  admit  us,  or  teach  us  that  we  cannot 


28  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

be  admitted,  to  the  author's  world.  Any  writer 
whose  words  have  this  power  may  make  a  poem  of 
anything — a  story,  a  dream,  a  thought,  a  picture,  an 
ejaculation,  a  conversation.  Whatever  be  the  sub- 
ject, the  poem  must  not  depend  for  its  main  effect 
upon  anything  outside  itself  except  the  humanity 
of  the  reader.  It  may  please  for  the  moment  by 
the  aid  of  some  irrelevant  and  transitory  interest — 
political  interest,  for  example  ;  but,  sooner  or  later, 
it  will  be  left  naked  and  solitary,  and  will  so  be 
judged,  and  if  it  does  not  create  about  itself  a  world 
of  its  own  it  is  condemned  to  endure  the  death  which 
is  its  element.  These  worlds  of  living  poems  may  be 
of  many  different  kinds.  As  a  rule  they  are  regions 
of  the  earth  now  for  the  first  time  separated  from 
the  rest  and  made  independent ;  they  may  be  lit  by 
the  sun  of  every  one,  or  by  another,  or  by  the  moon, 
or  by  a  green  lantern  :  whatever  they  are,  they  are 
stronger  than  this  world,  and  their  light  more  stead- 
fast than  sun  or  moon.  Wordsworth  writes  a  poem 
in  the  hope  of  making  it  give  the  same  impression  as 
a  certain  hawthorn-tree  gives  to  him ;  Keats  because 
he  cannot  dismiss  from  his  mind  the  words,  "  Dost 
thou  not  hear  the  sea  ?  "  ;  Burns  because  a  girl 
pleases  and  evades  him.  Anything,  however  small, 
may  make  a  poem ;  nothing,  however  great,  is  certain 
to.  Concentration,  intensity  of  mood,  is  the  one 
necessary  condition  in  the  poet  and  in  the  poem. 
By  this  concentration  something  is  detached  from 
the  confused  immensity  of  life  and  receives  in- 
dividuality, and  this  creativeness  brings  into  my 
mind  the  inhuman  solitariness  of  the  world  at  the 


FIRST   POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES"     29 

moment  when  Deucalion  stooped  to  make  the  first 
men  out  of  stones  ;  and  the  waste  of  waters  when 
the  dove  bore  an  olive-leaf  into  the  ark  out  of  the 
monotonous  waste.  But  the  early  Maeterlinck  turned 
no  stones  into  men,  nor  found  the  crest  of  a  tree 
piercing  the  dead  sea.  Nothing  in  "  Serres  Chaudes  " 
persuades  us  to  see  this  creative  high  value  in  the 
words ;  they  give  no  help  to  one  another.  It  is  as  far 
from  the  writing  of  a  sloven  or  a  common  man  as 
from  that  of  a  master,  but  it  says  nothing  save  that 
it  belongs  to  a  school  to  which  it  has  turned  in  the 
confusion  of  its  unrest.  Whatever  its  intention,  it 
has  not  that  quality  of  style  which  at  once  takes 
and  retains  possession  of  the  reader. 

To  give  such  a  poem  significance  it  would  be 
necessary  to  make  a  key  to  it,  like  St.  Melito's  key 
to  the  Bible,  where  it  is  shown  that  in  one  place  the 
word  "  Camelus  "  stands  for  Christ,  in  another  for 
love  of  this  world ;  that  "  Leo "  means  Christ, 
Mark  the  Evangelist,  the  Devil,  Antichrist ;  that 
"Unicornis"  is  Christ,  but  "  Unicornes"  the  proud. 
But  the  extreme  example  of  such  symbolism  is 
found  in  a  verse  by  Adam  de  St.  Victor,  where  the 
word  "  dragon  "  is  used  three  times  in  three  different 
senses  within  two  lines — Christ,  the  Devil  and  some- 
thing like  Antichrist.  But  this  is  not  literature  ;  as 
well  might  algebra  be  called  literature.  It  is  not 
deep  enough.  It  was  no  symbolism  of  this  kind 
that  gave  the  words,  "  I  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of 
sins"  inexorable  significance  to  Luther  as  if  the 
door  of  Paradise  had  been  thrown  wide  open, 
William  James,  from  whom  this  example  is  taken. 


30  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

gives  other  examples  of  persons  for  whom  "  Phila- 
delphia "  and  "  chalcedony  "  had  "  a  mighty  fascina- 
tion," and  "the  words  woods  and  forests  would 
produce  the  most  powerful  emotion." 

"Most  of  us,"  says  James,  "can  remember  the 
strangely  moving  power  of  passages  in  certain  poems 
read  when  we  were  young  ;  irrational  doorways,  as 
they  were,  through  which  the  mystery  of  fact,  the 
wilderness  and  the  pang  of  life,  stole  into  our  hearts 
and  thrilled  them.  The  words  have  now  perhaps 
become  mere  polished  surfaces  for  us ;  but  lyric 
poetry  and  music  are  alive  and  significant  only  in 
proportion  as  they  fetch  these  vague  vistas  of  a  life 
continuous  with  our  own,  beckoning  and  inviting, 
yet  ever  eluding  our  pursuit  We  are  alive  or  dead 
to  the  eternal  inner  message  of  the  arts  according 
as  we  have  kept  or  lost  this  mystical  susceptibility." 

A  curious  example  of  this  value  of  a  single  word 
or  phrase  may  be  seen  in  George  Herbert's  poem, 
"  My  Master,"  and  in  the  treatise  on  "  The  Song  of 
Angels,"  by  a  fourteenth-century  English  mystic, 
Walter  Hilton : 

"  Some  man  setteth  the  thoughts  of  his  heart 
only  in  the  name  of  Jesu,  and  steadfastly  holdeth 
it  thereto,  and  in  short  time  him  thinketh  that  the 
name  turneth  him  to  great  comfort  and  sweetness, 
and  him  thinketh  that  the  name  soundeth  in  his 
heart  delectably,  as  it  were  a  song  ;  and  the  virtue 
of  this  liking  is  so  mighty,  that  it  draweth  in  all 
the  wits  of  the  soul  thereto.  Whoso  may  feel 
this  sound  and  this  sweetness  verily  in  his  heart, 
wete  thou  well  that  it  is  of  God,  and,  so  long  as  he 
is  meek,  he  shall  not  be  deceived.  But  this  is  not 


FIRST  POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES"     31 

angel's  song ;  but  it  is  a  song  of  the  soul  by  virtue 
of  the  name  and  by  touching  of  the  good  angeL" 

This  is  an  example  of  the  extreme  and  highest 
symbolism  of  words.  Were  it  common  in  this 
degree  there  could  be  no  more  poetry,  or  it  would 
be  more  accurate  to  say  that  there  could  be  nothing 
cbc  but  poetry. 

It  is  an  old  opinion  that  all  visible  things  are 
symbols.  Sallustius,  the  friend  of  Julian  the 
Apostate,  says  Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  held 
the  world  itself  to  be  a  great  myth,  and  the  myths 
to  be  all  allegories.  Paris,  for  example,  being 
"the  soul  living  according  to  the  senses,"  and  there- 
fore only  able  to  see  beauty,  which  is  Aphrodite. 
For  him  the  value  of  a  thing  lay  "  not  in  itself, 
but  in  the  spiritual  meaning  which  it  hides  and 
reveals,"  Heraclitus  of  Ephesus  "  deliberately 
expressed  himself  in  language  which  should  not 
be  understood  by  the  vulgar  and  which  bore  a 
hidden  meaning  to  his  disciples,"  and  he  said  that 
"if  Homer  used  no  allegories  he  committed  all 
impieties  " — on  which  Professor  Murray  makes  the 
illuminating  comment  that  "on  this  theory  the 
words  can  be  allowed  to  possess  all  their  own 
beauty  and  magic,  but  an  inner  meaning  is  added 
quite  different  from  what  they  bear  on  the  surface." 
Ruskin  seems  to  have  held  a  similar  opinion  to 
this  of  Heraclitus,  for  he  sees  a  designed  signifi- 
cance in  the  fact  that  Ophelia's  name  means 
"  serviceableness,"  and  seriously  writes :  "  Hamlet 
is,  I  believe,  connected  in  some  way  with  '  homely,' 


32  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

the  entire  event  of  the  tragedy  turning  on  betrayal 
of  home  duty."  But  had  Shakespeare  paused  to 
secure  effects  of  this  kind,  assuredly  he  could  not 
have  produced  so  many  that  are  infinitely  more 
powerful.  The  laws  governing  aesthetic  and  spiritual 
effects  are  innumerable  ;  those  which  can  be  dis- 
covered are  probably  few  in  comparison,  and  if  these 
are  deliberately  followed  it  is  more  than  likely  that 
many  others  will  be  fatally  disobeyed.  Maeterlinck, 
for  example,  had  learnt  a  few  when  he  wrote 
"  Feuillage  du  Cceur  "  : 

"  Under  the  blue  crystal  bell  of  my  weary  melan- 
choly moods,  my  dim  bygone  griefs  take  gradually 
their  motionless  form  : 

"  Symbolic  growths !  Brooding  water-lilies  of 
pleasures,  slow-growing  palms  of  my  desires,  cold 
mosses,  pliant  bindweed  : 

"  Alone  among  them  a  lily,  pale  and  weak  in 
rigidity,  marks  its  motionless  ascent  above  the 
grief-laden  foliage : 

"  And  in  the  glimmer  which  it  radiates,  gradually, 
moon-like,  lifts  its  mystical  white  prayer  to  the 
blue  crystal." 

But  is  there  anything  here  in  addition  which  can 
awaken  and  gratify  the  profound  receptivity  of 
spirit  most  fit  for  communion  with  a  poet  ?  Mr. 
W.  B.  Yeats,  in  his  essay  on  "  The  Symbolism  of 
Poetry,"  rebukes  those — the  journalists — who,  in  his 
opinion,  are  certain  "  that  no  one,  who  had  a 
philosophy  of  his  art,  or  a  theory  of  how  he  should 
write,  has  ever  made  a  work  of  art "  and  supports 
himself  by  the  words  of  Goethe  :  "  A  poet  needs  all 


FIRST  POEMS:    "SERRES  CHAUDES »     33 

philosophy,  but  he  must  keep  it  out  of  his  work." 
The  qualification  he  half  rejects,  but  when  he 
comes  to  give  examples  of  potent  symbolism  he 
finds  them  chiefly  in  writers  like  Burns,  who  did 
not  know  the  word  and  would  perhaps  have  been 
astonished  and  even  amused  by  the  theory  itself. 
Even  Mr.  Symons,  loyal  critic  of  the  professed 
symbolists,  has  to  say  that  "  Symbolism,  as  seen 
in  the  writers  of  our  day,  would  have  no  value 
if  it  were  not  seen  also,  under  one  disguise  or 
another,  in  every  great  imaginative  writer." 

It  must  now  be  apparent  that  entirely  conscious 
symbolism  comes  very  near  to  being  allegory, 
which  of  all  things  is  abhorred  by  symbolists. 
Mr.  Yeats  himself  is  a  poet  who  is  far  more  than  a 
symbolist,  yet  it  is  possible  to  see  in  his  work  this 
danger  skirted,  and  sometimes  upon  the  wrong  side. 
He  confesses,  in  the  notes  to  his  "  Wind  among  the 
Reeds,"  that  he  "  has  made  the  Seven  Lights,  the 
constellation  of  the  Bear,  lament  for  the  theft 
of  the  Rose,  and  has  made  the  Dragon,  the 
constellation  Draco,  the  guardian  of  the  Rose, 
because  these  constellations  move  about  the  pole 
of  the  heavens,  the  ancient  Tree  of  Life  in  many 
countries,  and  are  often  associated  with  the  Tree  of 
Life  in  mythology."  It  was  natural  that  he  should 
have  said,  after  quoting  from  Goethe,  that  to  keep 
his  philosophy  out  of  his  work  is  not  always 
necessary  for  the  poet ;  for,  had  he  kept  his  own 
out  of  the  notes  to  "  The  Wind  among  the  Reeds," 
the  annotated  poems  must  have  fallen  short  of  his 
reader.  An  example  is  "  Mongan  laments  the 
3 


34  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

change  that  has  come  upon  him  and  his  beloved," 
beginning : 

Do  you  not  hear  me  calling,  white  deer  with  no  horns? 

I  have  been  changed  to  a  hound  with  one  red  ear  ; 

I   have  been   in   the   Path  of  Stones   and   the    Wood  of 

Thorns, 

For  somebody  hid  hatred  and  hope  and  desire  and  fear 
Under  my  feet  that  they  follow  you  night  and  day.  .  .  . 

"  I  got  my  hound  and  deer,"  runs  his  note, "  out  of  a 
last  century  Gaelic  poem.  .  .  .  This  hound  and  this 
deer  seem  plain  images  of  the  desire  of  man  'which 
is  for  the  woman,'  and  '  the  desire  of  the  woman 
which  is  for  the  desire  of  the  man,'  and  of  all  desires 
that  are  as  these."  It  may  be  that  a  day  will 
come  when  the  force  of  Mr.  Yeats's  genius  will  have 
added  to  common  culture  the  special  knowledge 
through  which  alone  the  poem  is  intelligible.  At 
present  the  language  of  it  is  dead  or  merely 
private,  like  that  of  Heraclitus,  and  the  note,  so 
far  from  helping  the  poem,  attracts  attention  ex- 
clusively to  itself.  It  is  again  a  question  of  style. 
The  poet's  words  refuse  to  make  any  impression 
corresponding  to  his  intention ;  they  speak  to  the 
brain  alone,  and  can  reveal  only  his  interest  in 
mythology.  Similar  notes  to  "  Serres  Chaudes  " 
must  have  been  extraordinarily  interesting  ;  but  if 
Maeterlinck  does  not  write  them  it  is  doubtful 
whether  any  one  else  can  or  will. 

The  one  piece  in  the  little  book  which  is  perfectly 
intelligible  is  "  H6pital."  It  should  have  been 
placed,  instead  of  "  Serre  Chaude,"  at  the  front  of 


FIRST   POEMS:    " SERRES  CHAUDES"     35 

the  collection,  because  it  is  like  that  poem  and  at 
the  same  time  reveals  its  own  origin,  real  or 
imaginary.  It  is  nothing  but  a  series  of  the  fantastic 
images  in  a  feverish  man's  brain.  Each  one  of  the 
images,  like  the  hothouse  in  the  midst  of  the  snow, 
the  churching  of  a  woman  in  a  storm,  the  banquet 
spread  in  a  forest,  the  meadow  sheep  trotting  sadly 
into  the  wood,  may  well  have  come  up  before  one 
sick  man  lying  in  a  hospital  on  the  bank  of  a  canal, 
and  many  of  them  are,  taken  by  themselves,  at  least 
suggestive.  As  a  whole  the  poem  is  neither 
realism  nor  impressionism,  nor  successful  in  any 
class,  because  the  parts  have  nothing  to  hold  them 
together  and  to  transform  them  from  the  state  of 
notes  into  poetry.  Nothing  sufficient  is  done  to 
prepare  the  way  for  the  procession  of  fever  pictures 
and  no  conclusion  is  drawn  from  them  ;  each  part 
is  greater  than  the  whole.  There  are  half  a  dozen 
other  poems — such  as  "  Cloche  a  Plongeur  "  and 
"  Ame " — which  do  not  differ  essentially  from 
"  H6pital."  Instead  of  the  dream  of  a  fever- 
patient  the  excuse  is  a  hothouse,  a  bell-glass,  or  a 
diving-bell,  and  he  sets  off  at  once  with  a  catalogue 
of  such  bric-a-brac  as  antediluvian  beasts  invading 
towns,  all  a  king's  daughters  (on  a  parliament  day) 
wandering  in  the  meadows,  crows  hatched  by 
swans,  a  sister  shelling  peas  at  the  foot  of  an 
incurable's  bed,  a  nuptial  banquet  celebrated  in  a 
cave,  princesses  going  to  bed  at  midday,  like  those 
in  his  play  of  "  Les  Sept  Princesses."  The  hospital 
recurs  in  more  than  one  poem,  for  example  in  that 
on  a  diving-bell  he  compares  the  pallor  of  those 


36  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

who  are  going  to  die  with  that  of  patients  who 
listen  to  the  rain  tranquilly  falling  in  the  hospital 
garden.  A  sleeping,  swooning,  fainting,  a  feverish 
condition  seems  to  be  the  foundation  of  all.  The 
things  seen  are  remote  and  solemnly  absurd,  like 
things  seen  very  far  away  in  an  influenza  dream  at 
midday.  Evidently  Maeterlinck  liked  this  magic 
of  looking  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope : 
he  was  the  amateur  looking  at  a  diving-bell  and 
thinking  of  going  down  in  the  green  water  and  seeing 
"strange"  creatures  round  about.  He  speaks  of 
"  the  water  of  dream  "  and  of  the  "  profound  reflec- 
tions of  things  " — lilies,  palms,  roses,  weeping  under 
the  waters  and  barred  over  by  "  the  mournful 
ennui  of  reeds."  He  was  perhaps  dazed  by  the 
seeming  depth  of  reflecting  water,  and  the  flowers, 
seen  as  it  were  in  the  sky,  were  natural  to  his  soul 
where  things  innumerable  of  different  and  far 
climates  might  blossom  together,  provided  that 
there  were  enough  hothouses.  Many  of  the 
poems  bring  before  the  mind  a  man  in  either  a 
conservatory  or  a  hothouse  looking  out  on  a  level, 
watered  country  with  swans  and  flocks  of  sheep. 
Nearly  all  things  affect  him  through  his  eyes  only, 
and  as  if  he  had  seen  them  by  compulsion  and  not 
choice  ;  he  does  not  love  any  of  them  ;  his  eyes 
have  caught  his  soul  in  a  trap,  as  he  says  in 
"  Apres-midi,"  and  there  again  he  is  lying  in  bed 
listening  to  the  hours,  waiting  for  rain  to  fall  on 
the  turf  and  on  his  motionless  dreams,  while  his 
gaze  is  following  lambs  in  the  towns  upon  the 
horizon.  No  wonder  that  he  addressed  his  soul 


FIRST  POEMS:    "SERRES   CHAUDES"     37 

as  "  truly  overmuch  in  shelter " — in  shelter  like 
the  plants  under  the  sweating  and  misty  bell-glass. 
"  Ennui,"  which  has  already  been  quoted  in  a 
translation,  is,  after  all,  the  most  perfect  of  this 
soul's  dreams.  He  saw  white  peacocks  because 
he  preferred  what  was  less  common — a  black 
kingfisher,  or  a  white  pillar-box,  and  so  on.  But 
lull  the  mind  and  lay  it  back,  as  it  were,  on  a 
pillow  of  sultry  noon,  and  let  the  birds,  the  indolent, 
careless  birds  have  their  way,  as  they  did  in  the 
poet's  dream.  The  poem  is  made  of  strange  birds 
and  beautiful,  monotonous  words  full  of  nasal 
vowels : 

Les  paons  nonchalants,  les  paons  blanc  ont  fui, 
Les  paons  blancs  ont  fui  1'ennui  du  reveil ; 
Je  vois  les  paons  blancs,  les  paons  d'aujourd'hui, 
Les  paons  en  alle"s  pendant  mon  sommeil, 
Les  paons  nonchalants,  les  paons  d'aujourd'hui, 
Atteindre  indolents  I'&ang  sans  soleil, 
J'entends  les  paons  blancs,  les  paons  de  1'ennui, 
Atteindre  indolents  les  temps  sans  soleil. 

This  is  the  music  of  words,  and  nothing  but 
words — words  in  their  barbaric  and  unintellectual 
purity,  and  according  to  your  ear  for  such  will  be 
the  clearness,  beauty,  and  significance  of  the  white 
peacocks  which  they  create.  Banish  all  thoughts  of 
symbolism  and  of  different  standards,  and  it  is  a 
beautiful  poem  of  refined  and  luxurious  indolence. 


Ill 

THE   FIRST   PLAYS  :  "  LA  PRINCESSE   MALEINE," 

"  LES  AVEUGLES,"    "  L'lNTRUSE,"    "  LES  SEPT 

PRINCESSES  " 

IF  Maeterlinck's  early  poems  contained  any 
promise,  it  certainly  was  not  a  promise  of 
plays.  The  fever-images — some  one  being  poisoned 
in  a  garden,  deer  in  a  beleaguered  town,  sheep 
trotting  sadly  into  the  hospital  ward — these  cannot 
have  seemed  to  have  in  them  either  the  method 
or  the  material  of  drama.  Peacocks,  or  swans,  or 
sheep,  were  unlucky  characters  for  a  play,  yet  they 
were  as  real  as  anything  else  in  "  Serres  Chaudes." 
The  effects  were  chiefly  silent,  the  poet's  attitude 
spectatorial  even  towards  himself. 

"  Serres  Chaudes,"  nevertheless,  was  closely 
followed  by  a  play  in  five  acts,  "  La  Princesse 
Maleine."  Here  there  is  a  clear,  and  perhaps  only 
too  emphatically  clear,  material  outline  ;  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe  would  not  have  been  above  it.  At  the 
opening,  the  betrothal  banquet  of  Prince  Hjalmar 
and  Princess  Maleine  is  being  held  in  the  castle 
by  her  father,  Marcellos,  king  of  a  part  of  Holland. 
A  comet  and  a  shower  of  stars  amaze  the  guards 

38 


THE   FIRST   PLAYS  39 

while  they  talk  of  how  the  prince's  father,  king  of 
another  part  of  Holland,  old  Hjalmar,  is  too  fond 
of  the  exiled  Queen  Ann  of  Jutland.  The  banquet 
lasts  late,  and  old  Hjalmar  is  very  drunk,  when 
a  smashing  of  windows  is  heard  and  Maleine  runs 
out.  Old  Hjalmar  has  quarrelled  with  Marcellos 
and  goes  away  taunting  him.  But  Maleine  still 
loves  Hjalmar,  though  she  is  not  yet  fifteen,  and 
her  father  shows  how  unreasonable  it  is,  seeing 
that  the  two  kings  are  now  at  war.  She  will  not 
give  up  the  lover  whom  she  has  seen  but  once. 
The  castle  is  attacked  and  most  of  the  defenders 
killed,  but  Maleine  has  disappeared.  Hjalmar  is 
now  to  marry  Uglyane,  daughter  of  Ann  of  Jut- 
land, while  Maleine  and  her  nurse  are  shut  up  in  a 
tower  to  be  safe  until  the  war's  end.  The  nurse 
makes  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  their  eyes  tell  them, 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  whole  land  is  wasted 
by  war  and  fire. 

Going  towards  Ysselmonde  through  the  forest, 
with  her  nurse,  Maleine  hears  that  Marcellos  and 
her  mother,  Godeliva,  have  perished  and  that 
Hjalmar  is  to  marry.  The  beauty  of  the  princess 
sets  two  men  fighting  in  a  village,  and  Hjalmar's 
friend,  Angus,  seeing  her  without  recognizing  her, 
suggests  her  for  Uglyane's  attendant.  In  that 
position  Maleine  takes  Uglyane  a  false  message  to 
say  that  Hjalmar  is  not  going  to  keep  a  promised 
tryst,  and  goes  herself.  Her  lover  feels  her  beauty 
in  the  dim  forest,  but  only  when  he  has  asked  her 
what  she  is  thinking  of  does  she  say  "  Maleine," 
and  reveal  herself,  to  his  joy. 


40  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Hjalmar  tells  the  old  king  of  Maleine's  return. 
He  no  longer  thinks  of  marrying  Uglyane.  A 
knocking  at  the  door  is  heard  at  a  feast,  and 
Maleine  enters  in  the  long  white  robes  of  a  bride. 
The  old  king  faints  when  he  knows  that  it  is 
the  dead  Maleine.  Queen  Ann  lets  him  know 
that  he  must  choose  between  herself  and  the 
returned  princess,  who  is  "  greener  than  if  she 
had  been  drowned  and  rotting  four  weeks  in 
water."  A  madman  points  at  the  princess  and 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross.  Nevertheless, 
Hjalmar  and  Maleine  are  to  be  married,  and 
Ann  and  Uglyane  to  wait  for  the  event.  Nuns 
come  to  weave  the  bride's  dresses ;  bells  and 
the  croaking  of  crows  are  heard  and  will-o'-the- 
wisps  are  seen  ;  Maleine  is  chilly  and  pale.  The 
queen  has  asked  for  a  poison,  but  the  physician, 
who  sees  some  mystery  hovering  about  the  castle, 
has  determined  to  make  it  harmless.  The  king 
is  a  reluctant  but  helpless  accomplice ;  he  would 
like  to  go  away,  but  Ann  holds  him  back. 
Maleine's  illness  makes  Hjalmar  think  that  she 
should  try  a  different  air ;  but  Ann  points  out 
that  here  she  is  well  nourished,  and  the  king  can 
only  feebly  exclaim,  "  Oh  !  oh  !  "  Allan,  the  little 
son  of  Ann,  asks  if  Maleine  will  not  ever  play 
with  him  again,  and  disturbs  them.  The  king 
kisses  Maleine.  A  knocking  is  heard  :  for  a  time 
they  do  not  open,  and  it  is  repeated  ;  but  when 
Hjalmar  opens  nothing  is  to  be  seen. 

Ann  feels  that  Hjalmar  is  suspicious.  She  is 
impatient ;  the  poison  will  "  idle  on  till  doomsday." 


THE  FIRST  PLAYS  41 

There  is  another  great  storm,  and  Maleine  is  left 
alone  in  the  night  with  a  large  black  dog  quivering 
in  the  corner  of  the  room.  She  thinks  somebody 
is  in  the  room,  and  calls  out — for  by  the  queen's 
orders  no  one  has  visited  her  all  day.  The  king 
and  Queen  Ann  come  to  her  door  ;  the  old  man 
would  draw  back,  but  they  enter  together,  and  the 
black  dog  crawls  out.  Pretending  to  do  her  hair, 
Ann  twists  a  cord  round  Maleine's  neck  and  kills 
her.  The  madman  appears  at  the  window,  but 
is  struck  back  into  the  moat  by  the  king.  They 
hear  a  scratching  outside,  and  the  nuns  singing. 
The  nurse  outside  calls  out  to  ask  if  Maleine  is 
asleep,  and  supposes  that  she  is  sleeping  soundly. 
"  Soundly,"  echoes  the  king.  Hjalmar  and  Allan 
are  now  outside,  and  the  nurse  relates  that  she 
was  attracted  by  the  dog  sniffing  at  the  door. 
Allan,  too,  listens,  and  declares  that  there  is  a 
little  boy  behind  it.  When  he  has  gone  the  king 
runs  out  without  waiting  to  help  Ann  to  put  the 
corpse  to  bed. 

The  fifth  act  opens  in  the  same  storm.  A  crowd 
in  the  cemetery  before  the  castle  sees  that  there 
is  no  light  in  the  room  which  is  the  Princess 
Maleine's.  The  moon  is  black.  Lightning  strikes 
the  castle  and  a  mass  falls  into  the  moat.  Inside 
the  courtiers  and  Hjalmar  are  inquiring  for  the 
king  and  Ann.  At  last  the  two  come  in,  the 
king  with  bloodstains  in  his  now  wholly  white 
hair.  Ann  forbids  the  nurse  to  enter  Maleine's 
room  ;  both  murderers  say,  "  No,  no,  no,  no."  The 
king  thinks  all  are  suspecting  and  staring  at  him. 


42  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Outside  Maleine's  room  the  dog  is  still  scratching, 
and  Hjalmar  and  the  nurse  long  try  to  get  him 
away.  They  enter  and  find  the  dead.  They  cry 
out,  and  every  one  comes  in,  the  king  dragging 
in  Ann  and  confessing  before  all.  At  this  Hjalmar 
stabs  the  murderess  and  then  himself.  The  king 
babbles,  asks  the  nurse  if  she  will  be  angry,  and 
if  there  will  be  salad  for  breakfast. 

When  old  Hjalmar  bids  an  angry  farewell  to 
Marcellos  after  the  banquet,  he  mentions  Maleine 
only  to  speak  of  her  green  face  and  white  lashes. 
These  features,  the  silence  and  feebleness  of  the 
heroine,  who  has  a  child's  will,  hard  to  break  but 
very  easy  to  thwart,  stand  out  as  the  most  original 
element  in  the  play.  The  comet,  the  shower  of 
stars,  the  banquet,  the  storms,  the  knockings  at  the 
door,  the  black  hound,  the  moat,  the  madman,  the 
mastery  and  poison  of  the  queen,  the  strangling 
and  the  blood  of  the  end,  seem  to  be  imposing 
externalities  used  by  one  who  is  impressed  by 
them  chiefly  because  they  are  alien  to  him.  They 
come  obviously  for  the  most  part  from  Shakespeare, 
from  "  Hamlet "  and  "  Macbeth,"  for  example,  and 
however  any  one  of  them  may  for  the  moment 
recover  its  original  power,  the  vast  accumulation 
is  rumbling,  unwieldy,  and  without  life,  and  it 
crushes  out  the  faint  lyric  interest  of  Maleine  her- 
self. Nor  is  the  king's  remark  that  "  There  is 
knocking  at  all  the  doors  in  this  place,"  the  only 
one  that  has  the  humour  of  parody.  Twice  we 
can  forget  everything  for  the  sake  of  that  strange 
beauty  with  her  white  eyelashes,  her  way  of  casting 


THE   FIRST   PLAYS  43 

down  her  eyes  and  crossing  her  hands.  The  tower 
where  she  is  shut  up  with  her  nurse  to  escape  the 
war  makes  an  enchanting  scene.  Their  chamber 
is  high  betwixt  the  sky  and  the  earth,  above  the 
tops  of  the  forest,  and  their  groping  hands  come 
upon  bats  and  fungi.  With  her  fingers  the 
nurse  breaks  away  the  mortar  until  at  last  the  sun- 
shine touches  their  flesh  as  warm  as  milk,  and  they 
are  dazzled.  They  see  the  blue  sky,  the  forest,  the 
green  sea,  and  a  ship  with  white  sails  upon  it,  but 
not  the  city,  nor  the  belfries,  nor  the  mills,  for  all 
is  burnt — and  only  crows  in  place  of  men.  The 
talk  of  nurse  and  princess  unfolds  this  scene  with 
perfect  precision  and  an  effect  beyond  anything 
which  Maeterlinck  had  achieved  before  it,  compar- 
able with  that  of  Tennyson's  "  Mariana  in  the 
Moated  Grange " ;  yet  as  a  play  "  Princesse 
Maleine "  would  lose  nothing  were  it  omitted. 
The  second  scene  is  the  meeting  of  Hjalmar  with 
Maleine  instead  of  Uglyane  in  the  wood  within  the 
park.  The  prince  wished  to  discover  in  the  dark 
wood  of  autumn  whether  his  betrothed  had  "  may- 
be a  little  silence  in  her  heart."  The  leaves  fall 
about  him,  and  the  wood  is  strange  and  full  of 
presage.  Maleine  comes.  The  eyes  of  the  owls 
shine  among  the  branches,  and  Hjalmar  throws 
earth  to  drive  them  away.  They  hear  the  sound  of 
a  mole  tunnelling,  and  sounds  of  other  things  which 
enter  the  park  in  spite  of  walls  and  moats.  She 
seems  to  him  singularly  beautiful,  and  he  knows 
her.  She  is  sad,  and  he  asks  why.  It  is  because 
she  thinks  of  the  Princess  Maleine  ;  she  is  the 


44  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Princess  Maleine,  and  the  moon  shows  her  face. 
But  the  delicacy  of  the  scene  is  so  slender  that  it  is 
all  but  broken  by  the  bleeding  at  the  nose  which 
sprinkles  the  princess's  dress  with  blood  ;  it  is 
incredible  that  such  a  thing  should  happen  to  such 
a  lady. 

Hjalmar  is  a  fit  lover  for  Maleine,  and  only  the 
unkindest  of  fates — or  rather  of  dramatists — could 
have  forced  him  to  kill  a  murderess  and  himself. 
He  is,  in  truth,  a  refined  man  of  our  own  time, 
somewhat  curious  in  sensations,  as  he  shows  when 
he  tells  his  friend  Angus  of  the  evening  in  the 
wood  : 

"  Oh !  strange  things  happened  last  evening. 
But  I  would  rather  not  dwell  upon  them  at  present 
Go  some  night  into  the  wood  adjoining  the  park, 
by  the  fountain,  and  you  will  notice  that  it  is  only 
at  certain  times,  and  when  one  looks  at  them,  that 
things  remain  motionless  like  well-behaved  children, 
and  do  not  wear  a  strange  and  weird  appearance  ; 
but  so  soon  as  one  turns  his  back  upon  them,  then 
they  begin  making  wry  faces  at  one,  and  playing 
bad  tricks." 

He  and  Maleine  and  the  black  hound,  living 
together  at  the  top  of  the  tower  above  the  wood, 
with  rain  or  hail  to  beat  on  a  window,  and  wind 
to  sound  in  the  willows,  whether  of  a  cemetery  or 
not,  would  have  been  sufficient  material  for  the 
dramatist.  The  child  Allan  might  have  been 
added,  for,  though  he  alone  or  the  hound  alone 
would  have  been  more  effective  than  both,  he  is 
a  being  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Maeterlinck. 


THE  FIRST  PLAYS  45 

So  also  are  the  swans  in  the  moat  under  Maleine's 
window  in  the  last  act.  They  fly  away  as  the 
crowd  watches — all  but  one,  which  has  blood  on  its 
wings,  floats  upside  down,  and  dies.  This  is  an 
escape  from  "  Serres  Chaudes,"  except  that  its 
symbolism  is  clear.  There  is  not  a  character  in 
the  play  who  could  not,  if  he  wished,  make  a  better 
poem  than  any  in  that  book.  Best  of  all  is  that 
made  by  two  lords  standing  at  a  window  during 
the  storm  in  the  last  act.  One  says  : 

"  Every  one  of  the  beasts  has  taken  refuge  in  the 
cemetery.  I  can  see  peacocks  among  the  cypresses. 
There  are  owls  on  the  crosses.  All  the  sheep  of 
the  village  are  crouching  upon  the  tomb-stones." 

The  other  adds  : 

"  Just  as  one  would  picture  a  festival  in  hell." 

And  a  maid  of  honour  cries  : 

"  Draw  the  curtains  in  !  Draw  the  curtains 
in!" 

Maeterlinck  showed  a  great  power  of  self- 
criticism  and  self-control  in  face  of  the  onslaught  of 
admiration  which  "  La  Princesse  Maleine "  pro- 
voked. He  did  not  accept  the  position  of  a  Belgian 
Shakespeare  :  he  knew  that  he  was  more  Belgian 
than  Shakespeare.  Not  once  did  he  repeat  the 
error  of  handling  with  antique  pomp  a  long,  various 
tale  and  a  host  of  characters. 

His  next  play,  "  Les  Aveugles,"  contains  fourteen 
human  characters  ;  but  one  voice,  and  that  not 


46  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

a  ventriloquist's,  could  play  the  parts  of  all.  All 
but  two  are  blind,  and  one  of  those  two  is  dead  and 
the  other  a  sucking  child.  They  have  less  vigour 
than  Maleine  when  the  owls  stared  at  her  in  the 
wood  ;  they  do  nothing,  nothing  is  done  to  them, 
and  they  hardly  move  or  speak.  As  in  "  La 
Princesse  Maleine,"  the  setting  is  choicely  im- 
pressive, but  it  is  essential,  and  it  never  changes. 
It  is  a  forest  on  a  small  island — "  a  very  ancient 
northern  forest,  eternal  of  aspect,  beneath  a  sky 
profoundly  starred.  In  the  midst  and  towards  the 
depths  of  night,  a  very  old  priest  is  seated  wrapped 
in  a  wide  black  cloak.  .  .  .  His  eyes,  dumb  and 
fixed,  no  longer  gaze  at  the  visible  side  of  eternity, 
and  seem  bleeding  beneath  a  multitude  of  im- 
memorial sorrows  and  of  tears."  On  the  right 
are  six  old  blind  men  seated  on  stones,  stumps  of 
trees,  and  dead  leaves.  On  the  left,  and  separated 
from  the  men  by  an  uprooted  tree  and  fragments 
of  rock,  are  six  blind  women  facing  the  men.  All 
are  in  sombre  and  uniform  garments,  and  most  sit 
waiting  without  gesture,  except  three  playing  and 
wailing  women.  Around  them  are  "  great  funereal 
trees" — yews, weeping  willows,and  cypresses.  These 
people  are  the  blind  from  a  Home,  and  the  priest 
is  the  priest  in  charge.  They  no  longer  hear  his 
voice,  and  they  are  afraid  of  everything  :  of  passing 
birds,  snow  falling,  or  dogs  barking,  and  they  do 
not  understand  anything  except  the  sound  of  the 
sea,  and  they  do  not  know  how  near  it  is.  They 
have  walked  thus  far  with  the  priest  exploring 
their  island,  which  has  "a  mountain  that  no  one 


THE   FIRST  PLAYS  47 

has  climbed,  valleys  which  no  one  likes  to  go 
down  to,  and  caves  that  have  not  been  entered  to 
this  day,"  and  now  they  cannot  tell  what  has  hap- 
pened to  him,  or  where  he  is.  They  conjecture, 
they  try  to  explain  what  is  going  on,  they  recall 
their  memories,  they  lament.  At  last  a  dog  drags 
one  of  the  men  to  where  the  priest  sits.  The  man 
touches  "a  face" — "a  dead  man" — and  he  thinks 
it  is  the  priest.  The  others  grope  their  way  and 
recognize  the  dead.  "  What  are  we  to  do  ?  ... 
We  cannot  wait  beside  a  dead  man.  .  .  .  Let  us 
keep  together.  ...  I  think  that  the  men  from  the 
big  lighthouse  will  see  us."  Only  the  infant  can 
see.  They  hear  sounds  as  of  footsteps  ;  the  child 
cries,  and  they  think  it  must  be  something,  and  so 
they  move  towards  the  sound.  But  is  it,  after  all, 
only  the  sea  on  the  dead  leaves  ?  At  last  the 
footsteps  stop  in  their  midst.  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 
asks  the  child's  mother.  There  is  no  answer. 
"  Have  pity  on  us  !  "  cries  the  oldest  blind  woman. 
But  nothing  breaks  the  silence  except  the  desperate 
crying  of  the  child. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  the  effectiveness  of  this 
piece  that  we  should  believe  the  blind  to  re- 
present mankind  bewildered  after  the  loss  of 
religion,  their  old  guide.  Whether  it  is  true  or 
not  that  religion  is  dead  and  men  blind  without 
it,  the  thought  is  so  stale  that  in  its  nakedness 
it  could  be  of  no  value  to  any  piece  of  writing. 
But  the  sight  of  a  blind  man  sitting  still  or  tapping 
in  the  street — for  example  in  fog,  when,  says  the 
poet  W.  H.  Davies,  "  only  blind  men  know  their 


48  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

way " — is  always  impressive  ;  and  to  the  blind 
company  in  the  play  are  added  many  elements 
of  mystery  and  terror  which  enhance  this  im- 
pressiveness.  They  have  at  the  start  little  more 
humanity  than  the  rocks  and  trees  among  which 
they  sit,  except  that  they  are  conscious  of  them- 
selves and  one  another.  They  are  like  creatures 
suddenly  made  out  of  the  rocks  and  trees  ;  and  it 
is  easy  to  picture  beings  of  equal  humanity  standing 
in  the  depths  of  a  misty  wood  when  rain  falls  all 
through  the  day  at  autumn's  end.  Or  they  are 
like  personifications,  so  that  we  feel  no  curiosity 
with  the  name  of  any  but  that  one  who  says  for 
Maeterlinck  : 

"  We  have  never  seen  one  another.  We  ask  one 
another  questions,  and  we  reply ;  we  live  together, 
we  are  always  together,  but  we  know  not  what  we 
are." 

And  the  young  blind  woman  who  had  seen  once : 

"  I  come  from  very  far,"  she  says  ;  "  it  is  beyond 
the  seas.  I  come  from  a  big  country.  ...  I  could 
only  explain  it  to  you  by  signs,  and  we  cannot 
see.  ...  I  have  wandered  too  long.  .  .  .  But  I 
have  seen  the  sun,  and  water.and  fire,and  mountains, 
and  faces,  and  strange  flowers.  .  .  .  There  are 
none  like  them  on  this  island  ;  it  is  too  dismal 
here,  and  too  cold.  ...  I  have  never  known  the 
scent  again,  since  I  lost  my  sight,  .  .  .  But 
I  saw  my  parents  and  my  sister.  ...  I  was  too 
young  then  to  know  where  I  was.  ...  I  still 
played  about  on  the  sea-shore.  .  .  .  Yet  how  well 
I  remember  having  seen !  .  .  .  One  day,  I  looked 
at  the  snow  from  the  top  of  the  mountain.  .  .  , 


THE  FIRST  PLAYS  49 

I  was  just  beginning  to  distinguish  those  that  are 
to  be  unhappy.  ...  1  can  still  distinguish  them 
by  the  sound  of  their  voices." 

This  last  thought,  if  not  peculiar  to  Maeterlinck, 
is  characteristic  of  him,  and  the  tone  of  the 
speech,  the  passionless  pathos  of  it,  the  resentless 
suffering,  the  memory  which  is  everything,  are 
recognizable  as  his  alone  in  this  combination.  And 
so  of  the  whole  play.  On  the  one  hand  the 
grandeur  and  distinctness  of  the  forest  upon  an 
island  of  the  sea ;  the  poor,  feeble  little  human 
beings,  on  the  other  hand,  this  helpless  band  of 
mostly  aged  and  solitary  blind  trusting  in  a  man 
who  has  died  in  their  midst  without  their  knowing 
it, — these  are  parts  of  a  picture  which  is  clear  and 
simple  and  powerful,  having  something  like  the 
significance  of  trees  or  any  other  natural  group  seen 
at  a  favourable  moment.  We  do  not  wish  to 
explain  it  or  fully  translate  it  any  more  than  we  do 
such  a  natural  scene  ;  it  is  a  symbol  whose  strength 
is  in  a  simplicity  at  once  clear-cut  and  vague. 
Exaggeration  has  put  a  still  sharper  edge  on  the 
nervousness  of  the  piece ;  for  the  shortest  speeches, 
especially  where  they  are  only  variants  of  oneanother, 
might  have  been  taken  down  from  life,  but  give  no 
effect  of  life  except  of  tiny  children.  This  is  the 
over-emphasis  due  to  the  impossibility  of  calculating 
means  and  ends.  It  is  all  the  more  noticeable 
because  it  has  an  appearance  of  realism,  although 
we  must  feel  that  the  piece  as  a  whole  does  and 
could  owe  nothing  to  a  study  of  the  blind.  These  are 
4 


50  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

not  human  characters.  They  are  given  the  names 
and  figures  of  men  and  women  because  they  cannot 
thus  fail  to  move  others  of  the  species.  A  similar 
effect,  as  has  been  hinted,  might  have  been  gained 
from  trees  or  stones,  but  the  painter  preferred  the 
more  pompous  material  of  humanity.  It  is  the  work 
of  a  spectator,  and  one  who  is  far  more  interested 
in  the  ideas  that  go  to  and  fro  among  men  than 
in  men  themselves. 

"L'Intruse"  is  of  the  same  date  and  the  same 
kind.  The  grandfather,  the  father,  the  uncle,  the 
three  daughters,  are  sitting  round  a  table  ;  a  lamp 
is  alight.  In  the  next  room  lies  the  sick  mother. 
Some  one  else  is  expected  ;  they  speak  in  a  low 
voice  and  in  short  phrases  about  insignificant 
things.  But  the  old  man  is  troubled.  The  trees 
in  the  park  tremble  as  if  somebody  brushed 
through  them  ;  the  nightingales  become  silent,  as 
if  there  were  some  one  in  the  garden  ;  the  swans 
are  alarmed,  the  fish  plunge  in  the  pond ;  but  the 
dogs  do  not  bark.  The  door  opens  as  if  pushed. 
They  hear  the  sound  of  a  scythe  being  sharpened. 
Then  it  is  as  if  some  one  came  invisibly  and 
softly,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  rose  up  and 
went  towards  the  door  of  the  next  room.  The 
dying  woman's  child  now  cries  and  continues  to 
cry  with  increasing  painfulness  until  the  end  of 
the  play.  The  sick-room  door  opens  and  the 
sister  of  mercy  comes  out  and  makes  the  sign  of 
the  cross  to  announce  the  woman's  death. 

As  in  "  Les  Aveugles,"  the  scene  is  made  im- 
pressive, but  less  relevantly.  It  is  an  old  country 


5' 

house  whose  panelled  walls  and  stained-glass 
windows,  the  park,  the  lake,  the  swans,  the  scythe- 
sharpening,  make  up  for  the  fact  that  the  action 
takes  places  in  modern  times.  At  the  approach 
of  death,  a  little  wind  rises  in  the  avenue,  the 
nightingales  are  stilled,  the  swans  frightened,  and 
the  daughter  is  sure  that  some  one  has  come  into 
the  garden  : 

Grandfather.  Are  not  the  nightingales  beginning 
to  sing  again,  Ursula  ? 

Daughter.    I  cannot  hear  one  anywhere. 

Grandfather.    Arid  yet  there  is  no  noise. 

Father.   There  is  a  silence  of  the  grave. 

Grandfather.  It  must  be  some  stranger  who 
scares  them,  for  if  it  were  one  of  the  family  they 
would  not  be  silent. 

Daughter.  There  is  one  on  the  big  weeping 
willow.  It  has  flown  away  ! 

Uncle.  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  discuss 
those  nightingales  ? 

Grandfather.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  cold  is 
penetrating  into  the  room. 

Daughter.  There  is  a  little  wind  in  the  garden, 
grandfather,  and  the  rose-leaves  are  falling. 

Father.    Well,  shut  the  door,  Ursula.     It  is  late. 

Daughter.  Yes,  father.  ...  I  cannot  shut  the 
door,  father. 

Two  other  daughters.   We  cannot  shut  the  door. 

Grandfather.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  the 
door,  my  children  ? 

Uncle.  You  need  not  say  that  in  such  an  extra- 
ordinary voice.  I  will  go  and  help  them.  .  .  . 

This  is  in  the  same  nervous  manner  as  in  "  Les 
Aveugles."  Every  one  is  restless,  irritable,  and 


5*  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

expectant.  They  are  probably  not  clever  people, 
and  they  are  hardly  made  to  look  cleverer  than 
they  really  are.  Some  of  their  talk  might  have  been 
taken  down  in  a  drawing-room  or  a  railway  carriage, 
as  when  they  talk  of  the  strange  ways  of  the 
old  grandfather : 

Father.    He  is  like  all  blind  people. 

Uncle.   They  think  too  much. 

Father.    They  have  too  much  time  to  spare. 

Uncle.  They  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

Father.    And  besides,  they  have  no  distractions. 

Uncle.   That  must  be  terrible. 

Father.    Apparently  one  gets  used  to  it. 

But  these  are  only  the  words.  The  dramatist 
does  not  indicate  the  silences,  the  tones  of  voice 
(though  these  are  supposed  to  be  noticed  by  the 
characters),  the  movement,  of  reality ;  because  if 
he  did  it  would  be  less  easy  to  make  felt  the  most 
important  quality  of  the  talk — its  distracted  ner- 
vousness, and  the  superficiality  which  is  in  a  way 
more  pregnant  than  anything  else  could  be.  He 
is  content  to  make  use  of  the  blankest  and  baldest 
reality  for  the  sake  of  the  resulting  intensity,  which 
distributes  itself  to  and  from  words  like  those  of 
the  uncle,  describing  the  old  grandfather's  state  : 

"  Not  to  know  where  one  is,  not  to  know  where 
one  has  come  from,  not  to  be  able  to  distinguish 
midday  from  midnight,  or  summer  from  winter — 
and  always  darkness,  darkness  !  " 

On  the  stage  a  degree  of  realism  might  well  de- 
stroy the  life  of  the  play.  Actors  and  actresses 


THE   FIRST   PLAYS  53 

would  be  unnecessarily  large.  For  here  again  the 
characters  are  called  human,  and  have  something 
human  about  them  ;  and  yet  do  not  appear  to  the 
reader's  imagination  as  life-size.  These  half-dozen 
people  are  only  so  much  paint  used  in  making  a 
decorative  pattern  of  death.  If  anything  from  the 
living  world  breaks  in  it  is  the  baby's  crying,  and 
this  has  in  the  play  a  similar  use  to  the  knocking 
at  the  gate  in  "Macbeth":  it  announces  that  if 
death  has  come  life  is  going  on,  and  must  persist 
and  overpower  talk  about  nightingales  and  the 
nervous  fears  of  a  disintegrated  family.  This  cry- 
ing thus  takes  us  out  into  the  world  from  the 
sombre  monotony,  the  subdued  and  reduced  life, 
of  the  sitting-room.  If  we  insist  on  treating  these 
people,  not  as  half-ghostly  miniatures,  according  to 
the  string  of  implicit  suggestions  by  Maeterlinck, 
but  as  human  flesh  of  the  middle  class,  we  must 
inevitably  laugh,  and,  I  suppose,  be  laughed  at  in 
turn  by  the  dramatist. 

"Les  Sept  Princesses"  belongs  to  1891,  the 
year  after  "Les  Aveugles"  and  "L'Intruse."  The 
description  of  the  scene  gives  almost  as  full  a 
picture  as  the  play,  which,  like  its  predecessors,  is 
mainly  pictorial.  There  is  a  vast  hall  of  marble, 
divided  lengthwise  into  two  by  a  range  of  seven 
white  marble  steps,  and  upon  pale  silken  cushions 
laid  on  these  sleep  the  seven  princesses,  with  white 
robes  and  bare  arms.  A  silver  lamp  is  burning. 
The  huge  glass  windows  reach  down  to  the  floor, 
and  outside  them  is  a  terrace.  In  the  light  of  a 
setting  sun  can  be  seen  a  black  marshy  country 


54  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

and  forests  of  oak  and  pine.  Perpendicular  to  one 
of  the  windows  is  a  dark  and  undeviating  canal 
between  great  willows,  and  upon  it  at  the  horizon 
a  great  warship  is  advancing,  just  as  in  "  Serre 
Chaude." 

The  old  king  and  queen  and  a  messenger  step 
forward  on  the  terrace  to  watch  the  ship  approach- 
ing. At  first  the  king  cannot  see,  and  the  queen  de- 
scribes the  full  spread  of  sail  touching  the  willows, 
and  the  oars  like  a  thousand  legs.  At  last  the 
king  sees  it,  as  if  too  large  for  the  canal.  Anchor 
is  dropped,  and  the  prince  descends.  The  swans 
go  to  meet  him.  Then  the  queen  turns  and  looks 
through  the  windows  at  the  princesses,  asking, 
"  Are  they  sleeping  all  the  time  ?  "  They  discuss 
whether  to  wake  the  sleepers,  but  the  doctor  has 
forbidden  it.  They  hear  a  step  and  leave  the 
window,  bidding  Marcellus  come  up  and  beware 
of  the  old  staircase.  After  embracing,  he  observes 
how  old  and  feeble  his  grandparents  are,  and  asks 
after  his  seven  cousins.  They  show  him  the  seven 
sleeping  in  the  hall.  "  How  white  they  are !  "  he 
says,  and  asks  why  they  sleep.  "  Oh  how  pale,  how 
strange,  they  are !  "  He  begins  to  distinguish  one 
from  the  other.  He  prefers,  he  says,  the  one  who 
is  not  so  clear.  "That,"  says  the  queen,  is  "Ursula, 
who  has  waited  seven  years  for  her  lover."  A 
shadow  lies  across  her  ;  she  sleeps  more  profoundly. 
And  Marcellus  goes  round  to  another  window,  but 
cannot  see  her  face.  The  queen  tells  him  their 
names — Genevieve,  Helen,  Christabel,  Madeleine, 
Claire,  and  Claribella.  Why  did  not  Marcellus 


THE   FIRST   PLAYS  55 

come  sooner?  So  long  have  they  watched  night 
and  day  along  the  canal  ...  it  is  now  black  night, 
and  the  rain  has  a  sound  of  crying  in  the  dark.  A 
distant,  monotonous  song  is  heard,  with  the  burden, 
"  We  shall  return  no  more,  we  shall  return  no 
more."  It  is  the  sailors  turning  the  ship.  The 
queen  tells  Marcellus  she  has  waited  long  for  him, 
and  now  "  It  is  not  you  any  more."  Looking  at 
the  princesses  again — the  song  still  in  their  ears — 
something  has  changed,  and  Ursula's  hand  is  no 
longer  held  by  her  sisters.  "  She  cannot  sleep  thus," 
says  the  queen,  "  it  is  not  natural ;  and  her  hair  is 
not  done  up.  But  she  said  at  noon  :  '  Above  all, 
do  not  wake  us.'  How  still  they  are  ! "  She  taps 
on  the  window,  but  they  do  not  move,  or  make 
a  sound.  The  queen  cries :  "  Oh,  my  God,  save 
them !  .  .  .  they  sleep  so  horribly ! "  and  she  sobs 
wildly  against  the  window.  They  try  to  open  the 
door,  but  neither  door  nor  windows  will  open,  and 
the  king,  with  Marcellus,  have  to  enter  by  a  sub- 
terranean passage.  Cries  of  joy  come  from  the 
sailors,  and  the  ship  is  lit  up.  At  the  appearance 
of  Marcellus  all  the  princesses  but  Ursula  awake. 
The  queen  outside  cries,  "  Ursula ! "  The  young 
prince  kneels  and  touches  her  bare  arm,  then  looks 
round  fearfully  at  the  pale,  silent  six.  They  raise 
her  up  stiff,  while  the  king  and  queen  cry  and  beat 
on  the  windows.  "  She  is  not  asleep,"  says  the 
queen.  "  Pour  water  on  her.  .  .  .  Open  the  door. 
...  It  is  too  late.  .  .  .  Shut!  shut!"  All  cry, 
shaking  the  door  and  knocking  at  the  window : 
"  Open,  open  !  "  A  black  curtain  falls  suddenly. 


$6  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Nobody  who  had  read  "  Les  Aveugles "  and 
"L'Intruse"  could  doubt  the  authorship  of  "  Les 
Sept  Princesses."  Here  are  the  same  agitated, 
helpless  people  speaking  in  abrupt,  simple,  and 
often-repeated  phrases.  Here  again  something 
is  going  on  which  they  do  not  understand,  and 
are  impotent  to  arrest  or  change.  But  the  matter 
of  both  earlier  plays  was  a  not  improbable  in- 
cident which  was  developed,  it  may  be  extra- 
vagantly, but  in  a  manner  that  touched  human 
beings.  If  "Les  Aveugles"  was  extraordinary, 
while  "L'Intruse"  was  not  extraordinary  in  any 
way,  both  were  easy  to  understand.  But  "  Les 
Sept  Princesses  "  is  a  picture  drawn  for  its  own 
sake.  It  has  its  logic,  but  the  elements  in  it 
seem  chosen,  like  those  of  "  La  Princesse  Maleine," 
because  they  are  attractive  in  themselves — the 
marble  hall  and  stairs,  the  terrace,  the  dark  land 
of  marshes  and  forests,  the  canal  and  the  warship, 
the  seven  princesses  in  white  sleeping  on  the 
stairs,  the  swans,  the  prince  arriving  to  claim  one 
of  them  and  finding  her  at  last  dead,  the  old 
king  and  queen  shut  outside  the  hall  and  knock- 
ing vainly  at  the  windows  ;  only,  these  elements 
are  combined  without  any  of  the  unwieldiness  of 
"  La  Princesse  Maleine,"  without  interfering  with 
themselves  or  with  anything  else.  It  is  simply 
a  picture  in  Maeterlinck's  manner,  and  this  manner 
has  the  effect  of  creating  a  feeling  of  helplessness 
and  smallness  in  the  presence  of  fate  and  the 
earth.  If  any  one  seeks  to  explain  it  as  a  solar 
myth  he  will  not  lack  argument :  the  princesses 


THE  FIRST  PLAYS  57 

are  from  a  warm  country,  and  they  are  always 
seeking  the  light,  but  the  trees  are  too  big  and 
the  fogs  too  lasting ;  and  thus  they  sicken,  and 
the  solar  hero,  Marcellus,  who  actually  has  a  name, 
arrives  too  late.  In  life  we  do  not  expect  to  find 
seven  princesses  sleeping  all  through  the  day  by 
lamplight  on  the  stairs  of  a  palace  hall,  but  no 
one  who  has  seen  the  pictures  of  Burne- Jones  will 
be  in  the  least  surprised  at  seeing  them  in  a 
picture.  The  use  of  a  number,  seven,  should  put 
us  into  the  right  key  for  enjoying  the  picture  for 
itself.  This  shows  us  at  once  that  the  princesses 
are  to  be  used  decoratively,  like  the  seven  branches 
of  a  candlestick,  or  what  not ;  and  their  names 
confirm  us.  It  is  a  little  more  difficult  not  to 
take  too  seriously  the  nervousness  of  the  queen, 
by  which  we  are  repeatedly  invited  to  believe  her 
some  trepidant  old  lady  of  flesh  and  blood.  But 
we  are  helped  when  the  king  says  :  "  We  are  poor 
little  old  people,"  which  means,  "  We  are  poor  little 
old  people,  such  as  M.  Maeterlinck  loves  to  harass 
for  an  hour,  but  it  really  does  not  hurt  as  much 
as  it  seems."  If  this  does  not  perfectly  reassure, 
then  the  words  of  the  prince  will : 

"  Oh !  how  white  they  are,  all  seven  !  .  .  .  Oh  ! 
how  beautiful  they  are,  all  seven !  .  .  .  Oh  !  how 
pale  they  are,  all  seven  !  .  .  .  But  why  are  they 
asleep,  all  seven  ?  " 

These  are  not  the  words  of  mortal  man.  Further, 
the  queen  herself  gives  us  valuable  help  by  saying 
that  the  princesses  "  are  not  happy ;  it  is  not  our 


58  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

fault.  .  .  .  We  are  too  old,  too  old  ;  every  one 
is  too  old  for  them.  .  .  .  One  is  too  old  without 
knowing  it."  The  queen  tells  the  king  that  her 
crying  is  nothing  :  "  One  often  cries  for  no  reason  : 
I  am  so  old  to-day  "  ;  and  these  words,  that  might 
be  deeply  moving  in  life,  or  in  another  writer,  do 
not  move  us  too  much  on  this  page,  which  is  no 
more  real  than  a  pastoral.  If  only  these  characters 
could  be  quite  silent  they  would  be  even  more 
pleasing.  Even  the  water  in  the  moat  is  "very 
old  also,"  and  so  "  it  always  sleeps."  One  or  two 
strange  touches  of  reality  mark  them :  thus  the 
princesses  always  wake  up  thirsty ;  also  they  grow 
very  tall,  "  which  is  perhaps  why  they  are  so 
sickly " — like  tall  artist's  models  of  the  Burne- 
Jones  type,  who  were  said  to  be  fed  upon  crumpets, 
capsicum,  and  warm  water  ;  and  then  Marcellus 
asks  the  absurdly  natural  question,  "  Is  this  their 
bedroom  ?  "  Nevertheless,  read  sympathetically, 
it  is  a  literary  picture  of  charming  composition, 
with  the  languid  refrain  of  "  We  shall  never  come 
back  !  We  shall  never  come  back  ! " 

"  Les  Sept  Princesses  "  was  in  a  sixth  edition 
in  the  year  of  its  appearance,  but  Maeterlinck 
did  not  go  on  writing  little  plays  of  this  kind. 
Others  could  do  them  all  but  equally  well.  In 
this  same  year,  1891,  appeared  his  old  school 
friend,  Charles  van  Lerberghe's,  play,  "  Les 
Flaireurs,"  dedicated  to  himself.  When  "  Les 
Flaireurs  "  was  written  I  do  not  know,  but  Gerard 
Harry  calls  it  the  "  elder  brother  "  of  "  Maleine." 
It  is  exceedingly  like  Maeterlinck  in  all  its  de- 


THE   FIRST   PLAYS  59 

vices,  differing  from  it  chiefly  in  the  atmosphere 
which  has  been  freshened  by  a  breath  from  the 
world  of  everyday.  It  opens  with  a  funeral  march 
— a  rolling  of  muffled  drums— the  far-off  sound 
of  a  horn.  A  sick  woman  and  her  daughter  hear 
a  voice  outside  in  the  night,  and  they  learn  that 
it  is  "  the  man."  But  they  expect  nobody,  and 
the  daughter  tells  her  mother  it  is  the  wind,  and 
asks,  "  Do  you  come  for  me  ?  "  "  No,  indeed," 
says  the  voice,  and  in  answer  to  her  explains  that 
he  is  "  the  man  with  the  water  .  .  .  and  the 
sponge  ...  for  washing."  He  knocks.  The  girl 
is  afraid.  He  knocks  again,  but  she  will  not  admit 
him.  Very  well,  he  will  wait.  The  women  pray, 
the  rain  whips  the  panes,  and  ten  o'clock  sounds. 
A  dog  barks. 

Again  the  drums  and  the  horn,  and  presently  a 
knocking  at  the  door.  "  Be  quiet,  mother  sleeps  "  ; 
but  he  knocks  again.  "  I  have  come,"  says  the 
voice,  and  bursts  into  laughter.  The  mother 
listens,  and  hears  something  under  the  door,  rust- 
ling and  dragging.  "  The  man  with  the  linen," 
says  the  voice.  "  Mother,  it  is  nothing."  "  But 
there  is  some  one,"  the  mother  persists,  and  the 
knocking  is  repeated  again  and  again.  The 
mother  hears  horses  ;  she  can  hear  the  grass  grow, 
and  she  knows  that  the  lovely  Lady  of  the  Castle 
has  come  on  a  horse.  Again  the  knocking.  "  Why 
do  you  tremble,  mother  ? "  "  For  joy.  She  is 
there."  The  voice,  on  the  daughter's  renewed 
refusal,  says,  "  I  will  wait."  The  mother  has 
dreamed  that  she  was  in  Paradise,  ,  ,  .  "  Has  she 


60  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

gone  ? "  They  pray  for  the  lovely  lady,  and 
eleven  o'clock  strikes,  the  dog  barks,  and  the  girl 
puts  out  the  candles.  Again  the  drums  and  the 
horn,  and  a  knocking.  "  You  will  make  my 
mother  die,"  says  the  daughter  ;  but  the  knocking 
or  the  voice  replies  to  all  she  says.  Her  mother 
bids  her  light  candles,  but  her  house  is  "  not  fit 
to  receive  her."  Outside  the  voice  says,  "  I  am 
the  man  with  the  coffin  "  ;  but  the  mother  says, 
"  Open  the  door.  She  can  enter."  The  knocking 
cracks  the  door.  "  1  will  not  open,  never,  never. 
Are  you  come  to  kill  my  mother  ? "  while  the 
mother  says,  "  Enter,  lovely  lady  ;  this  is  the  day, 
and  I  am  ready."  Outside  is  a  knocking  and 
cracking,  and  voices  disputing.  The  old  woman 
begins  to  rattle  terribly.  Horses  are  heard 
whinnying.  The  mother  smiles,  and  folds  her 
daughter  to  her,  while  she  points  to  the  door.  "  It 
is  the  coach."  There  is  a  sound  of  a  heavy 
carriage,  and  fragments  of  talk  and  oaths.  Again 
a  knocking.  "  Saint  Mary,  Virgin,"  exclaims  the 
mother.  The  door  gives  way,  but  the  daughter 
hurls  herself  against  it,  and  midnight  strikes.  The 
voices  outside  utter  a  relieved  "  Ah ! "  and  at  the 
last  stroke  the  old  woman  gives  a  loud  raucous 
cry,  the  girl  quits  the  door,  and  throws  herself 
open-armed  on  the  bed,  while  the  entering  wind 
blows  out  the  candles.  But  here  the  presence 
of  a  will,  or  at  least  of  an  active  vitality,  robs 
the  method  of  most  of  the  quality  which  it  has 
in  Maeterlinck's  hands. 


IV 

"PELLEAS  ET  ME"LISANDE" 

INSTEAD  of  writing  another  "  Sept  Princesses," 
Maeterlinck  wrote  "  Pellets  et  Me"lisande," 
which  appeared  in  1892,  when  he  was  thirty.  The 
story  has  fully  as  much  external  interest  as  "  La 
Princesse  Maleine,"  and  it  is  treated  upon  a 
similar  scale,  but  without  irrelevancies.  The 
characters  are  of  the  same  vaguely  "  ancient " 
period  as  those  of  "  Maleine,"  and  the  scenery  is 
the  same.  Old  Arkel  is  "  King  of  Allemande." 
Golaud  and  Pelle'as  are  his  grandsons,  and  Gene- 
vieve  their  mother.  Yniold  is  the  son  of  Golaud  by 
a  former  marriage.  Melisande  is  a  princess  from 
a  strange  land.  There  is  a  castle,  a  park,  a  forest 
by  the  sea.  Golaud  is  lost  in  the  forest  while 
following  the  wild  boar,  and  finds  the  beautiful, 
timid  M^lisande  sobbing  beside  a  fountain.  He 
takes  her  home,  half-willing,  and  marries  her.  But 
upon  meeting  the  younger  brother,  Pelle'as,  she  is 
sad,  and  would  not  have  him  go  away  from  the 
castle.  She  tells  Golaud  that  she  is  not  happy,  she 
knows  not  why.  But  she  continues  to  meet  Pelle'as, 
and  the  child  Yniold  sees  that  they  have  both  been 

61 


62  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

crying  as  they  sat  together  in  the  dark.  Golaud 
comes  upon  Pelle'as  kissing  Melisande's  hair,  which 
she  has  let  fall  from  her  window.  Golaud  warns 
his  brother,  calling  it  smilingly  only  child's  play ; 
but  is  jealous,  and,  after  having  caught  them 
together  again,  he  drags  her  about  by  the  hair,  so 
that  Arke'l,  looking  on,  says  :  "If  I  were  God  I 
should  have  pity  on  men's  hearts."  The  lovers  meet 
again  beside  a  fountain.  Golaud  is  in  hiding,  and 
kills  Pelle'as  and  wounds  Melisande,  so  that  she  dies 
after  being  delivered  of  a  child,  "  a  little  puny  girl 
that  a  beggar  would  not  care  to  bring  into  the  world 
...  a  little  waxen  thing  that  came  much  too  soon." 
Such  stories  have  been  told  before,  but  simply 
as  a  story.  Maeterlinck  tells  it  admirably,  with 
proportions  that  are  original  as  well  as  just,  so  that 
even  those  who  cared  nothing  for  his  peculiar 
method  must  recognize  a  master.  The  surround- 
ings, the  colour,  the  air  are  his  own,  like  those  of 
its  little  predecessors.  His  choice  of  an  Arthurian 
name  for  his  hero  is  not  unimportant.  It  gives  the 
key  to  the  story  as  a  whole.  He  needed  an 
atmosphere  remote  from  modernity  and  from  all 
historic  time,  and,  by  using  an  Arthurian  name,  he 
gained  an  antique  richness  far  beyond  anything 
which  could  have  come  through  a  medium  of  his 
own  imagination  like  that  in  "  Les  Sept  Princesses." 
Whether  from  its  Celtic  blood  or  not,  the  Arthu- 
rian literary  tradition  has  just  that  unreality  which 
serves  Maeterlinck.  He  comes  to  us  upon  the 
music  of—- 
Lancelot and  Pelleas  and  Pellenore, 


"PELLEAS  ET  MELISANDE"  63 

but  tempers  it  by  a  scene,  the  first,  which  might  have 
been  the  opening  of  a  modern  play,  for  he  is  to 
make  the  tradition  his  own  and  colour  it  afresh, 
as  Morris  and  Swinburne  did.  "  What  big  forests," 
exclaimed  Melisande  when  she  came  to  the  castle, 
"  what  big  forests  all  around  the  palace  !  "  Seldom 
could  she  see  the  sun.  The  well  where  she  sits 
with  Pellets  is  "perhaps  as  deep  as  the  sea." 
When  she  and  Pell£as  enter  a  cave  they  see  "three 
white-haired  old  beggars,  seated  side  by  side,  and 
supporting  one  another  in  sleep  against  a  ledge  of 
rock."  Looking  out  of  a  window,  Pelleas  shows 
the  boy  Yniold  the  dogs  fighting.  Under  the 
castle  there  are  deep  vaults  where  "  the  darkness 
is  thick  as  envenomed  pulp,"  but  opening  on  the 
sea.  On  the  doors  there  are  heavy  bolts  and 
chains,  and  when  Pelleas  goes  out  to  his  last 
embrace  of  Melisande  he  hears  these  shoot 
behind  him  :  "  It  is  too  late,  it  is  too  late,"  he 
cries,  and  the  words  echo  like,  "  We  shall  never 
come  back."  When  M61isande  lies  on  her  death- 
bed the  maid-servants  come  in  unasked  and  range 
themselves  in  silence  and  in'spite  of  Golaud/along 
the  walls. 

Golaud  first  sees  Melisande  crying  because  she 
is  lost,  and  does  not  "  belong  here,"  beside  a  pool 
in  the  forest,  and  at  a  touch  from  him  she 
threatens  to  cast  herself  in.  She  has  great  eyes 
that  seem  never  to  shut,  and  she  takes  him  for  a 
giant.  She  would  rather  die  than  that  he  should 
recover  her  crown,  which  has  fallen  into  the  water. 
But  he  takes  her  home  and  weds  her,  though  the 


64  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

hair  is  grey  on  his  chin  and  temples :  six  months 
after  he  knows  no  more  of  her  than  at  first.  When 
she  first  meets  Pelle"as  he  tells  her  that  he  is 
perhaps  going  away  on  the  next  day,  and  she 
asks  :  "  Oh  !  .  .  .  Why  are  you  going  ?  "  They 
sit  and  talk,  not  to  one  another  so  much  as  into 
the  silence.  She  dips  her  hands  into  the  water 
because  "it  seems  as  if  my  hands  were  ill  to-day," 
and,  tossing  Golaud's  ring  up  into  the  air,  she  lets 
it  slip  into  the  fountain,  and  they  cannot  get  it 
back.  When  she  reached  the  castle  she  was  joyous 
like  a  child,  but  now,  says  Arkel,  she  stands, 
"  careless  perhaps,  but  with  the  strange  bewildered 
look  of  one  that  was  ever  expecting  a  great  sorrow, 
out  in  the  sunshine,  in  a  fair  garden."  Even  the 
jealous  Golaud  sees  innocence  in  her  eyes  so  great 
"  they  could  give  lessons  in  innocence  to  God  "  ; 
yet  her  flesh  disgusts  him — her  hands  are  too  hot 
— and  he  tortures  her  by  the  hair.  When  she  tells 
Pell6as,  who  has  just  said  "  I  love  you,"  that  she 
loves  him  too,  her  voice  "  comes  from  the  end  of 
the  world."  Asked  if  she  is  lying,  she  says  :  "  No, 
I  never  lie  ;  I  only  lie  to  your  brother."  When  he 
kisses  her  she  is  "  so  beautiful  that  one  would  say 
you  were  going  to  die."  Forgiving  Golaud — 
"  what  is  there  to  forgive  ?  " — she  dies  of  a  wound 
that  would  not  have  killed  a  bird  ;  and  as  she  lies 
in  her  bed  she  looks  like  her  baby's  big  sister. 

Compared  with  his  wife,  Golaud  is  a  human 
being  upon  the  ordinary  plane.  Falling  in  love 
with  Me"lisande  is  probably  his  first  serious  in- 
discretion, and  he  knows  it  is  indiscreet.  When 


SAINT    WANDRII.I.E  t    RUINS    OK    THE    ABBEY 


"PELL&AS  ET  ME1LISANDE"  65 

he  sees  the  flocks  being  led  to  town  he  observes 
their  crying,  like  lost  children — "  one  would  say 
that  they  already  smelt  the  butcher  "  ;  but  goes  on 
to  utter  words  which  betray,  if  anything,  a  too 
ironic  opinion  in  the  dramatist:  "It  will  be  time 
to  go  in  to  dinner.  What  a  lovely  day  !  What  an 
admirable  day  for  the  harvest ! "  He  sets  his  child 
to  spy  for  Melisande.  Upon  her  death-bed  he 
seeks  from  Melisande  a  confession  of  infidelity — 
"  Quick  !  quick  !  ...  the  truth  !  the  truth  !  "—and, 
failing  to  get  a  clear  statement  of  facts,  he  raves 
because  he  will  die  "  like  a  blind  man,"  and  will 
never  know. 

Pelle"as  is  a  brother  soul  to  Melisande,  but  not  to 
Golaud,  who  had  a  different  father.  Before  he 
has  seen  her  he  seems  to  his  mother  weary  of 
waiting  so  long  for  Melisande.  He  is  always 
agitated,  and  when  little  Yniold  enters  the  room 
after  knocking  at  the  door  he  reproves  him  :  "  That 
is  not  the  way  to  knock  at  doors.  It  was  just  as 
if  some  misfortune  had  happened."  His  passion 
finds  open  and  direct  expression  but  seldom,  as 
when  Melisande's  hair  inundates  him  from  a 
window  above,  and  he  holds  it  and  winds  it 
about  his  neck.  "  Look,  look,"  he  cries  up  to 
Mdisande : 

"  Look,  look,  I  am  kissing  your  hair.  .  .  .  All 
pain  has  left  me  here  in  the  midst  of  your  hair. 
.  .  .  Do  you  hear  my  kisses  creep  along  your 
hair  ?  .  .  .  They  are  climbing  all  the  length  of 
your  hair.  .  .  .  Every  single  hair  must  bring  you 
one.  .  .  ." 
5 


66  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

On  the  night  when  Golaud  surprises  and  kills 
him  he  watches  the  long  shadows  of  Me"lisande 
and  himself  and  notices  how,  far  away,  they  kiss, 
as  if  he  were  enchanted  as  the  child  Traherne  was 
by  his  reflection  in  the  water  :  "  Our  second  selves 
those  shadows  be." 

As  Pelle'as  is  Maeterlinckian  in  the  languor  and 
acquiescence  of  his  actions,  so  his  grandfather 
Arkel  is  Maeterlinckian  in  thought.  On  reading 
the  letter  in  which  Golaud  confesses  his  "  strange 
marriage "  and  fears  that  Me"lisande's  beauty  will 
not  excuse  his  folly  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  Arkel 
says : 

"  He  has  done  what  he  probably  had  to  do.  I 
am  very  old,  and  yet  I  have  never  for  one  instant 
seen  clearly  within  myself;  how  then  would  you 
have  me  judge  the  deeds  of  others  ?  I  am  not 
far  from  the  grave,  and  I  am  incapable  of  judging 
myself.  .  .  .  One  is  always  mistaken  unless  one 
shuts  one's  eyes." 

And  he  concludes : 

"  Let  it  be  as  he  has  willed.  I  have  never  put 
myself  in  the  way  of  a  destiny  ;  and  he  knows  his 
own  future  better  than  I  do.  There  is  no  such 
thing,  perhaps,  as  the  occurrence  of  purposeless 
events." 

Arkel,  it  is  evident,  has  been  reading  "  Le  Tre"sor 
des  Humbles  "  and  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destined," 
though  these  books  were  not  actually  published  for 
several  years  yet.  When  Pelle'as  wishes  to  go 
away  from  the  castle,  and  Arkel  wishes  him  to  stay, 


"PELLEAS  ET   M&LISANDE"  67 

the  old  man  says:  "If  you  think  it  is  from  the 
depths  of  your  life  that  this  journey  is  exacted,  I 
shall  not  forbid  you  to  undertake  it ;  for  you  must 
know,  better  than  I,  what  events  you  ought  to  offer 
to  your  being  and  to  your  destiny."  The  old  man 
has  relatives  among  the  blind  in  "  Les  Aveugles  " 
and  is  at  least  cousin  to  the  grandfather  in 
"L'Intruse"  and  the  prince  in  "Les  Sept  Prin- 
cesses." He  is  the  intellect  of  the  family,  and  has 
thought  so  much  that  he  is  never  much  disturbed, 
and  can  always  speak  like  a  philosopher  if  not  like 
a  wise  man.  When  Melisande  has  died  and 
Golaud  is  sobbing — "  Oh  !  oh !  oh  !  " — Arke'l  says 
to  him  :  "  It  is  terrible,  but  it  is  not  your  fault.  .  .  . 
It  was  a  little,  gentle  being,  so  quiet,  so  timid,  and 
so  silent.  ...  It  was  a  poor  little  mysterious 
being,  like  all  the  world,"  and  this  is  the  very 
accent  of  his  microcephalous  relatives ;  but  his 
next  words,  the  last  in  the  play,  mark  the 
philosopher  again  :  "  Let  us  go  from  here.  Come  ; 
the  child  must  not  stay  here,  in  this  room.  .  .  . 
It  must  live  now,  in  her  stead.  .  .  .  The  poor 
little  one's  turn  has  come.  .  .  ."  It  is  like  the  end 
of'L'Intruse." 

The  doctor  also  who  attends  Melisande  has  had 
the  same  training.  "It  is,"  he  tells  Golaud,  "  not 
of  this  small  wound  that  she  could  die  ;  a  bird 
could  not  die  of  it  ...  it  is  therefore  not  you  that 
have  killed  her,  my  good  lord ;  you  must  not 
distress  yourself  so.  ...  She  could  not  have 
lived.  .  .  .  She  was  born  for  no  reason  ...  to 
die ;  and  now  she  is  dying  for  no  reason.  .  .  ." 


68  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Not  for  nothing  does  Maeterlinck  make  his 
characters  royal  persons,  or  at  least  landowners ; 
or,  if  not,  blind  men  in  the  care  of  an  asylum. 
Such  lives  could  not  be  supported  by  any  others 
except,  perhaps,  priests.  It  is  hard  to  think  of  them 
as  performing  the  simplest  functions  of  men,  so 
sad,  languid,  and  submissive  are  they.  They  can 
lie  about  beside  forest  fountains  all  day  and  lose 
a  ring  or  a  crown  and  take  sadness  or  happiness 
as  if  it  were  a  sweet  drug.  Golaud's  normality 
interrupts  them  from  time  to  time  and  ends  them 
at  last.  The  child  Yniold  interrupts  them  because 
he  is  strange,  but  only  with  the  strangeness  of  a 
child  among  elders,  while  all  the  others  are  strange, 
meditative  children  whose  elders  we  do  not  see. 
Yniold  is  perfectly  natural.  Golaud  is  asking  him 
about  Pelle"as  and  M61isande,  and  promises  to  give 
him  something  to-morrow : 

" '  What,  father  dear  ?  '  asks  the  child. 

"  '  A  quiver  and  arrows  ;  but  now  tell  me  what 
you  know  about  the  door,'  says  Golaud. 

" '  Big  arrows  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  yes  ;  very  big  arrows.  But  why  will  they 
not  have  left  the  door  open  ? — Come,  answer  ! — no, 
no;  don't  open  your  mouth  to  cry.  I  am  not 
angry.' " 

This  is  a  domestic  conversation  from  any  day. 
Yniold  and  Golaud,  in  fact,  and  the  servants  of  the 
opening  scene,  give  scale  to  the  play.  They  are 
strong,  rough,  ordinary  members  of  the  human 
species.  Arkel,  Pelle"as,  and  Melisande  are  of 
another  race.  And  yet  Golaud  himself  has  the 


"PELLEAS   ET   MELISANDE"  69 

trick  of  these  "  poor  little  "  people  when  he  says : 
"  Do  you  see  those  poor  creatures  over  there  who 
are  trying  to  light  a  little  fire  in  the  forest  ? — it 
has  been  raining.  And,  round  the  other  way,  do 
you  see  the  old  gardener  trying  to  lift  up  that  tree 
which  the  wind  has  blown  across  the  path  ? — he 
cannot  do  it ;  the  tree  is  too  big ;  the  tree  is  too 
heavy,  and  it  must  lie  where  it  fell.  There  is  no 
help  for  it  all.  ..." 

None  of  these  people  is  free,  and  if  they  were 
modern  or  belonged  to  any  time,  we  could  not 
endure  the  sight  of  their  servility.  They  are 
enslaved  to  two  great  powers — to  life,  like  all  other 
men,  and  to  Maeterlinck.  He  has  given  Arke'l  his 
philosophy,  for  example.  He  has  made  Pelle*as's 
friend  say  that  he  knows  precisely  the  day  of  his 
death.  He  has  made  the  grandfather  of  Pell6as 
see  in  his  grandson  "  the  sad,  kindly  face  of  one 
that  has  not  long  to  live."  He  alone  could  make 
Arkel  say  that  he  had  observed  how  all  young 
and  beautiful  beings  shape  round  themselves 
events  that  are  young,  beautiful,  and  happy.  He 
bade  Pell6as  say :  "  We  cannot  do  as  we  wish  " ; 
and  Me"lisande :  "  I  don't  myself  understand  all 
that  I  say,  do  you  see."  He  delights  in  the 
sound  of  the  chains  and  bolts  shutting  out  the 
lovers  from  the  castle.  He  has  given  the  doctor 
also  a  copy  of  his  "  Tresor."  He  gave  the  servants 
orders  to  go  and  form  an  impressive  line  along  the 
walls  of  the  death-chamber  and  to  fall  down  all 
together  on  their  knees  at  the  moment  of  death, 
though  it  was  unknown  to  the  doctor.  Maeterlinck 


70  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

it  was  who  insisted  that  the  lovers  should  speak  as 
if  they  were  not  speaking  to  one  another,  uttering 
words  that  are  hollow,  solitary  ejaculations,  not 
communion  ;  and  when  they  sit  side  by  side,  as 
Yniold  notices,  they  stare  not  at  one  another  but  in 
the  same  direction,  without  closing  their  eyes.  And 
as  he  can  make  Golaud  see  the  "  poor  little  "  men 
struggling  helplessly,  so  he  can  make  Yniold.  For 
when  the  child  is  trying  to  lift  a  rock  to  release  a 
ball  he  says  :  "  It  is  heavier  than  all  the  world.  .  .  . 
It  is  heavier  than  all  that  has  happened.  ...  I 
can  see  my  golden  ball  between  the  rock  and  this 
naughty  stone,  and  I  cannot  reach  it.  ...  My 
arm  is  not  long  enough  .  .  .  and  the  stone  will  not 
be  lifted  ...  I  cannot  lift  it  ...  and  there  is  no- 
body that  could  lift  it.  .  .  ."  Not  content  with 
this,  the  child  is  made  to  see  a  flock  of  sheep 
coming :  "  How  many  there  are !  .  .  .  They  are 
afraid  of  the  dark.  .  .  .  They  huddle  together !  .  .  . 
They  all  want  to  turn  to  the  right.  .  .  .  They  may 
not!  Their  shepherd  is  throwing  earth  at  them.  .  .  . 
Ah !  ah !  .  .  .  They  are  obeying." 

Symbols,  symbols  !  It  is  the  triumph  of  Maeter- 
linck that  these  symbols,  though  exaggerated,  are 
never  out  of  harmony.  They  are  all  variations 
of  one  theme — the  littleness,  the  impotence,  the 
lostness  of  mankind.  The  sound  is  sweet  because 
the  creatures  are  so  small  and  far  away,  and  unlike 
anything  known  to  us.  Even  so  must  the  giant 
have  regarded  the  man  whom  he  caged  for  the 
sweetness  of  his  voice  in  lamentations.  The  voices 
of  Pelleas  and  Melisande  are  sweet.  Their  gestures 


"PELLEAS   ET  MELISANDE"  71 

are  beautiful,  and  they  move  among  scenes  which 
are  grim  or  beautiful,  such  as  impress  men.  We 
who  know  ourselves  free,  or,  if  we  think  otherwise, 
at  least  always  behave  at  the  moment  of  action  as 
if  we  were  free,  we  can  safely  smile  upon  them, 
as  perhaps  we  also  are  smiled  upon  by  them.  Yet 
the  symbols,  and  the  beauty  of  Melisande,  touch 
as  well  as  amuse,  so  that  our  smile  ends  in  a  sigh, 
which  again  turns  to  a  smile  because  "it  is  not 
real."  At  least  the  music  of  the  scene  and  action 
is  so  great  that  we  are  no  more  disturbed  by  the 
sadness  of  the  theme  than  in  De  Quincey's  "  Oh, 
burden  of  solitude,  that  cleavest  to  man  through 
every  stage  of  his  being  ! " 

A  curious  contrast  with  "  Pelle"as  et  M61isande  " 
may  be  found  in  a  Portuguese  play  of  the  early 
nineteenth  century,  Viscount  de  Almeide  Garrett's 
"  Brother  Luiz  de  Sousa."  Here  the  mysterious 
intelligence  of  a  young  girl  gives  half  of  its  power- 
ful quality  to  the  play,  and  yet  itself  remains 
credible  and  does  not  disturb  the  naturalness, 
albeit  romantic,  of  the  whole.  The  principal 
characters  are  Manuel  de  Sousa  (afterwards  Brother 
Luiz),  his  wife  Magdalena,  his  daughter  Maria, 
and  Telmo,  an  old  servant.  Manuel  was  Magda- 
lena's  second  husband,  and  father  of  Maria.  Her 
first  husband  was  supposed  to  have  perished  with 
King  Sebastian  at  the  famous  battle  of  Alcacer 
(1578),  although  he  had  written  on  the  morning  of 
that  battle  :  "  Alive  or  dead,  Magdalena,  I  will  see 
you  at  least  once  again  in  this  world."  These 
words  haunted  Magdalena,  and  though  she  had 


72  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

never  loved  this  man,  she  waited  and  searched  for 
him  for  some  years.  Old  Tel  mo  was  always  at 
hand,  who  had  known  her  first  husband,  and  re- 
called him  as  a  mirror  of  chivalry,  with  repeated 
doubts  of  his  death.  He  was  always  talking  of 
King  Sebastian,  whose  return  the  people  expected, 
as  they  might  King  Arthur's.  Telmo,  too,  had 
a  strange  hold  upon  Maria,  a  delicate  and  subtle 
child.  Her  mother  feared  lest  she  should  get  to 
know  of  her  obsession.  She  loved  Telmo's  tales 
and  songs  of  the  battle,  and  begged  him  for  the 
romance  of  "  the  hidden  island  where  King  Dom 
Sebastian  lives,  who  did  not  die,  but  will  come 
again  one  thick,  misty  day.  .  .  .  For  he  did  not 
die,  did  he,  mother  ?  "  She  had  observed  that  only 
Telmo  was  willing  to  talk  of  the  lost  king.  She 
noted  her  mother's  anxiety,  reading  her  eyes  "  and 
the  stars  in  the  sky,  too — and  knew  things.  .  .  ." 
She  lay  awake  whole  nights  trying  to  understand. 
When  they  were  anxiously  expecting  her  father's 
return  from  Lisbon  it  was  she  who  first  knew  of 
his  arrival — "  and  he  comes  affronted,"  she  said, 
before  the  others  heard  a  sound.  Then  it  became 
necessary  to  move  to  a  new  house,  to  the  house 
which  had  belonged  to  Magdalena's  first  husband. 
In  spite  of  all,  she  had  to  go  there  to  Hve,  and  the 
old  house  was  burnt.  Maria  saw  that  her  mother 
was  being  preyed  upon,  but  she  also  believed  that 
they  were  being  forewarned.  She  was  thinking 
too  much  ;  her  father  bade  her  play  and  laugh  and 
enjoy  herself,  but  she  recognized,  with  "  a  kind  of 
inner  knowledge,"  the  portrait  of  Dom  John  hang- 


"PELLEAS   ET  MELISANDE"  73 

ing  on  one  of  the  walls.  She  was  one  to  find 
"  marvels  and  mysteries  in  the  most  simple,  natural 
things."  Again  her  father  had  to  go  away — on  the 
very  fatal  day  for  Magdalena,  the  anniversary  of 
her  first  marriage,  of  King  Sebastian's  death,  and 
of  her  first  meeting  with  Manuel.  While  he  was 
away  came  a  palmer  from  Jerusalem,  and  slowly 
let  drop  into  her  soul  the  news  that  he  was  sent  to 
her  by  one  who  loved  her  much,  and  had  been 
twenty  years  a  captive.  After  seeing  Telmo  and 
learning  that  Magdalena  really  had  sent  messen- 
gers in  search  of  her  lost  husband  before  the  second 
marriage,  the  palmer  begged  the  old  man  to  say 
that  his  story  was  a  lie.  Maria  was  near  physical 
death  from  excitement  and  sorrow.  Magdalena 
was  willing  to  pretend  to  question  the  word  of 
a  vagabond,  but  both  she  and  Manuel  were  per- 
suaded that  nothing  was  left  for  them  but  "  these 
shrouds  " — the  religious  habit.  It  was  when  they 
were  actually  about  to  take  the  scapular,  and  in 
the  presence  of  the  archbishop,  that  the  bewildered 
Maria  burst  in  upon  the  ceremony,  crying,  "  What 
God  is  this  on  that  altar  who  would  rob  a  daughter 
of  her  father  and  mother  ?  "  The  palmer  entered 
at  the  last  scene  to  try  to  save  them,  but  Maria 
fell  dead,  and  Manuel,  addressing  Magdalena  as 
"  My  sister,"  said  :  "  Let  us  commend  our  souls  to 
this  angel  whom  God  has  taken  unto  Himself." 
Perhaps  no  child  in  drama,  after  and  including  the 
romantic  period,  is  so  exquisitely  and  spiritually 
revealed  as  Maria,  who  is  really  the  heroine  of  the 
play ;  a  child  of  fourteen,  who  is  on  the  stage 


74  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

almost  from  beginning  to  end,  and  dominates  it 
with  a  vivid  and  fatal  melancholy.  When  Magda- 
lena  says,  "  This  child  is  marvellous  :  she  sees  and 
hears  at  such  distances "  ;  and  her  brother  Jorge, 
"  True  ;  it  is  a  terrible  sign  at  that  age,  and  with 
that  complexion  "  ;  when  Jorge  says  alone,  "  The 
hearts  of  all  seem  to  have  a  presentiment  of  mis- 
fortune .  .  .  and  the  malady  has  almost  taken 
hold  of  me  too,"  * — we  seem  to  be  listening  to  the 
words  of  Maeterlinck's  characters.  Their  words, 
but  not  their  voices.  These  are  people  who  were 
born  and  lived  and  died  among  men  in  the  six- 
teenth, or  at  any  rate  the  nineteenth,  century. 
Their  words  deepen  the  mystery  of  this  life,  which 
the  words  of  MeUisande  and  Pelleas  and  Arkel 
do  but  delicately  embroider  with  old  mysteries  of 
which  they  have  heard  tell. 

*  "  Don  Luiz  de  Sousa,"  translated  by  Edgar  Prestage  (Elkin 
Mathews). 


V 

"TROIS  PETITS  DRAMES  POUR    MARIONNETTES " 

FROM  "Pelteas  et  Melisande"  Maeterlinck 
returned  to  plays  of  the  earlier  kind.  "  Alla- 
dine  et  Palomides  "  is  indeed  much  like  "  Pell6as 
et  Melisande,"  but  it  is  also  much  more  thor- 
oughly Maeterlinckian.  Any  one  might  have  used 
the  story  of  "  Pelle'as  and  Melisande,"  and  would 
probably  have  made  the  outline  of  it  much  like 
Maeterlinck's ;  it  is  an  obvious  problem  romanti- 
cally solved.  But  "  Alladine  et  Palomides "  is 
far,  very  far,  less  external,  and  has  no  movement 
or  outline  worth  mentioning  ;  nor  is  it  conceivable 
that  any  character  in  it  could  be  interested  in 
foreign  policy,  as  Golaud  was  supposed  to  have 
been,  instead  of  marrying  the  little  girl  of  the 
forest.  It  has  not,  I  believe,  been  acted.  "  In- 
terieur"  is  like  "  L'Intruse " ;  "La  Mort  de 
Tintagiles "  is  as  clear  a  picture  as  "  Les  Sept 
Princesses,"  and  is  not  only  mysterious,  but  in- 
telligible and  impressive.  Both  these  plays,  "  In- 
terieur  "  and  "  La  Mort  de  Tintagiles,"  have  been 
acted.  All  three  appeared  as  "  three  little  plays 
for  marionettes"  in  1894. 

75 


76  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

At  the  beginning  of  "Alladine  et  Palomides" 
Ablamore  is  leaning  over  the  sleeping  Alladine, 
a  beautiful  little  Greek  slave  from  the  heart  of 
Arcadia.  Ablamore  says  she  always  falls  asleep 
under  those  trees  ;  when  she  is  awake  she  looks  at 
him  like  a  slave  ordered  to  do  the  impossible.  It 
is  sad  for  him  to  love  too  late  ;  but  no  adventures 
ever  came  to  him.  Holding  back  his  "  poor  white 
beard,"  he  embraces  her,  and  she  awakes.  She  has 
had  a  bad  dream — some  one  is  coming.  There ! 
Palomides  enters  without  his  betrothed,  Astolaine, 
daughter  of  Ablamore.  Palomides  and  Alladine 
look  at  one  another,  and  his  horse  frightens  her 
lamb — a  lamb  which  understands  all  that  happens. 
Ablamore  bids  them  enter  the  castle,  noticing  how 
much  the  silent  Alladine  talks  this  evening  ;  she  is 
always  restless  in  the  great  palace. 

Alladine  is  looking  at  the  park  with  her  brow 
pressed  against  the  window,  and  Ablamore  can 
only  get  monosyllables  from  her.  She  will  not 
talk  of  Palomides,  nor  go  out,  and  she  falls  weeping 
on  Ablamore's  breast.  Going  to  seek  help,  he 
finds  Palomides  sitting  staring  at  the  door.  Alla- 
dine and  Palomides  meet  on  either  side  of  the 
drawbridge — she  with  her  lamb.  She  dares  not 
venture  over  towards  the  forest  side  where  he  is, 
but  her  lamb  goes  to  his  call  and  falls  into  the 
moat ;  and  she  tells  Palomides  she  will  not  see  him 
again.  At  this  Ablamore,  who  has  been  spying  on 
them,  enters  and  drags  her  away.  He  finds  them 
kissing,  but  tells  Alladine  that  she  is  obeying 
laws  she  does  not  know.  She  denies  the  kiss. 


"TROIS  PETITS  DRAMES"  77 

He  thinks  she  fears  him  as  an  old  man,  and 
cruelly  seizes  and  threatens  her,  but  suddenly  falls 
on  his  knees  and  asks  pity ;  she  weeps  in  silence. 
Palomides  tells  Astolaine  that  he  loves  her,  "  even 
more  than  her  whom  I  love  " — that  is  Alladine,  in 
whom  he  has  found  something  more  incompre- 
hensible and  powerful  than  the  beauty  of  the  most 
beautiful  soul  or  face.  Astolaine  says  that  she 
knows  we  do  not  do  what  we  will. 

Astolaine  now  tells  Ablamore  she  cannot  love 
Palomides,  whereupon  Ablamore  bids  her  come 
and  show  him  the  truth  without  words  ;  she  cannot 
deceive  him.  Palomides  tells  Alladine  that  he 
has  seen  Ablamore  ominously  rattling  his  keys. 
They  are  prepared  to  fly,  with  Astolaine's  help. 
But  Astolaine  has  to  tell  the  sisters  of  Palomides 
that  he  will  not  fly,  and  that  her  father  goes  about 
with  his  big  gold  keys  singing,  "  Go  wherever  your 
eyes  may  bid  you,"  and  has  shut  up  Alladine. 
While  Ablamore  is  asleep  Palomides  takes  the 
keys  and  opens  Alladine's  room,  where  her  hands 
are  manacled  by  her  hair.  There  Ablamore  locks 
them  both  in,  after  saying  that  he  bears  them  no 
ill-will,  and  that  they  have  done  what  they  must, 
and  so  must  he  also. 

The  lovers  awaken  bound  in  the  deep  grottos 
of  Ablamore.  They  set  themselves  free,  and  care 
not  so  long  as  they  are  together.  But  Ablamore's 
soul  must  have  told  them  they  were  happy ;  they 
hear  iron  blows,  and  stones  are  dislodged  and 
light  let  in  upon  the  cave.  The  two  recoil  from 
the  incomers  and  fall.  It  is  not  Ablamore,  but 


78  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Astolaine  and  the  sisters  of  Palomides  who  enter 
and  can  see  them  embracing  in  the  dark  water 
without  trying  to  save  themselves.  In  the  water 
the  decomposed  body  of  the  lamb  is  found. 

Outside  one  door,  in  a  long  corridor  of  innumer- 
able doors,  are  the  sisters  of  Palomides ;  As- 
tolaine and  the  doctor  talk  by  another  and  she 
tells  him  how  Ablamore  had  called  around  him 
these  events,  and  was  now  their  first  victim — for  he 
had  fled  on  the  day  when  he  made  the  lovers  enter 
the  grotto.  They  must  forget  one  another.  But 
presently  the  voice  of  Alladine  from  the  one  room 
calls  to  Palomides  in  the  other,  and  he  replies  ; 
nor  can  those  outside  the  door  prevent  the  feeble 
voices  from  reaching  one  another's  ears.  The  voice 
of  Palomides  whispers  he  does  not  suffer,  but 
wishes  he  could  see  her  ;  and  she  replies  that  they 
will  never  see  one  another  again — the  doors  are 
shut.  Her  voice  seems  to  him  as  if  she  were  going 
away,  and  the  play  ends  : 

Palomides.   Alladine ! 

Alladine.    Palomides  ! 

Palomides.   Alia — dine  ! 

The  characters  in  this  play  have  Arthurian  and 
similar  names  :  they  have  such  names,  but  they  are 
not  kings  and  queens,  nor  kings'  sons  and  daughters, 
like  the  people  of  "  Pelleas  et  M61isande."  Per- 
haps it  was  that  royal  persons,  invested  by  tradi- 
tional opinion  with  some  grandeur  or  strength, 
could  not  be  made  sufficiently  small  and  frail  to 
the  imagination.  The  pet  lamb  of  Alladine,  al- 
though wise,  is  feebler  than  M&isande.  Not  only 


"TROIS  PETITS   DRAMES"  79 

are  the  characters  more  frail  and  miniature,  but 
the  scene  is  mightier  and  more  terrible,  and  Alla- 
dine  is  aware  of  the  contrast,  and  tells  it  to 
Palomides  when  they  first  meet : 

"  I  cannot  tell  why  it  is  that  uneasiness  comes  to 
me,  each  time  I  go  into  the  palace.  It  is  so  vast, 
and  I  am  so  little  ;  I  am  lost  in  it.  ...  And  all 
those  windows  that  look  on  the  sea.  .  .  .  You  can- 
not count  them.  .  .  .  And  the  corridors  that  wind, 
and  wind,  for  no  reason  ;  and  others  that  do  not 
turn,  but  that  lose  themselves  in  the  walls.  .  .  . 

And  the  rooms  I  dare  not  go  into " 

("  We  will  go  into  every  one,"  says  Palomides.) 
"  I  feel  that  I  was  not  meant  to  live  there,  or 
that  it  was  not  built  for  me.  .  .  .  Once  I  lost  my 
way.  ...  I  had  to  open  thirty  doors  before  the 
daylight  returned  to  me.  And  I  could  not  escape ; 
the  last  door  led  to  a  lake.  And  there  are  vaults 
that  are  cold  even  in  summer ;  and  galleries  that 
twist,  and  twist,  back  on  to  themselves.  And 
stairs  that  lead  no  whither,  and  terraces  whence 
nothing  can  be  seen." 

Through  these  vaults  the  lovers  were  carried  to 
the  caverns  under  the  palace.  Palomides  had 
heard  of  them  : 

"  No  one  ever  went  into  them  ;  and  only  the 
king  had  the  keys.  I  knew  that  the  sea  flooded 
those  that  lay  deepest ;  and  the  light  we  behold  is 
doubtless  thrown  up  by  the  sea.  .  .  ." 

And  very  much  more  both  Palomides  and  Alla- 
dine  are  able  to  say  about  the  cave  and  its  majesty 
and  magnificence,  even  in  the  first  moments  of  their 


8o  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

awakening  in  imprisonment.  The  cave  was  beauti- 
ful until  the  rescuers  broke  open  an  entrance  for 
the  sunlight.  But  this  probably  is  not  a  parable,  but 
only  one  of  those  symbols  of  something  or  nothing 
which  help  to  preserve  our  attention.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Ablamore's  metaphor  of  truth  hiding 
itself  among  the  rocks — a  phrase  which  is  re- 
membered when  Alladine's  lamb  is  picked  up  in 
the  grotto  ;  and  of  Ablamore's  six  fountains  in  the 
park  which  sprang  up,  one  after  the  other,  at  the 
death  of  his  daughters.  Some  day  there  may  be  a 
key,  not  by  Maeterlinck,  to  all  these  things,  even 
to  Ablamore's  song,  as  he  jingles  his  keys : 

Unhappiness  had  three  keys  of  gold — 
But  the  queen  is  not  yet  freed. 

Unhappiness  had  three  keys  of  gold — 
Go  where  your  eyes  may  lead. 

But  they  are  probably  only  attempts  to  give  the 
same  effects  as  traditional  tales  where  mysterious 
numbers  and  the  like  point  through  the  mist  to 
some  ancient  meaning  now  lost. 

Like  "Pelle"as  et  Melisande,"  "  Alladine  and 
Palomides"  has  a  framework  upon  which  a  very 
different  kind  of  play  might  have  been  built.  The 
story  of  an  old  man  and  of  a  young  girl  who  loves 
a  young  man  better  is  not  an  unfamiliar  one ;  but 
here  there  is  no  motive  and  no  character.  A  story 
was  necessary,  and  so  one  of  the  monumental  simple 
stories  was  used.  Maeterlinck  gets  no  farther  than 
the  impression  that  Ablamore  is  old  and  Alladine 
and  Palomides  both  are  young.  They  do  what  they 


"TROIS   PETITS   DRAMES"  Si 

do  because  they  must.  They  explain  themselves  to 
one  another.  Like  Arke"!,  they  know  that  they  do 
what  they  must.  When  Palomides  has  fallen  in 
love  with  Alladine  he  tells  Astolaine,  his  betrothed, 
in  this  way :  "  Fate  has  stepped  out  towards  me  ; 
or  I,  it  may  be,  have  beckoned  to  Fate."  And  she 
replies  by  bidding  him  not  to  weep ;  she  too  is 
aware  that  we  cannot  always  do  what  we  will.  All, 
therefore,  that  is  necessary  for  them  all  the  time  is 
for  them  to  describe  what  has  happened  to  them. 
They  all  see  themselves  as  if  they  were  reading 
about  themselves  in  a  book,  and  what  they  see  they 
speak  of  in  low  tones  of  even  sadness  that  exclude 
particularity  of  passion.  When  Alladine  and 
Palomides  lie  a-dying,  or  losing  the  desire  to  live, 
they  seem  to  be  reciting  a  litany  far  older  than 
themselves  : 

The  voice  of  Alladine.    I  had  pity  on  you  !  .  .  . 

The  voice  of  Palomides.   They  have  parted  us, 
but  I  always  shall  love  you.  .  .  . 

All.  I   had   pity  on  you  .  .  .  are  you  suffering 
still  ? 

Pal.    I  suffer  no  more,  but  I  want  to  see  you  .  .  . 

All.    Never  again  shall  we  see  one  another,  for 
the  doors  are  all  closed.  .  .  . 

Pal.   There  is  that  in  your  voice  that  tells  me  you 
love  me  no  longer.  .  .  . 

All.   Yes,  yes,  I  love  you  still,  but  now  all  is 
sorrow.  .  .  . 

Pal.   You  are  turning  away.  ...  I  scarcely  can 
hear  you.  .  .  . 

All.   We  seem  to  be  hundreds  of  miles  from  each 
other.  .  .  . 
6 


82  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Yet  how  like  this  is  to  "  Serres  Chaudes  "  in  its 
sick  sense  of  remoteness,  while  the  neverness,  the 
lostness,  of  "  We  shall  never  come  back  "  in  "  Les 
Sept  Princesses,"  M61isande's  "They  have  closed 
the  doors,"  and  Pelleas's  "  It  is  too  late,"  are  re- 
peated and  concentrated  in  a  perfect  phrase  of 
Alladine's  :  "  Nous  ne  nous  verrons  plus,  les  portes 
sont  ferm£es."  (Never  again  shall  we  see  one 
another,  the  doors  are  all  closed.)  It  is  not 
the  separation  of  Alladine  from  Palomides  and 
Palomides  from  Alladine  that  we  feel  as  this  scene 
passes.  It  is  the  idea  of  separation  audibly 
presented.  Were  Alladine  a  woman,  and  not  a 
little  Greek  slave  from  the  heart  of  Arcadia,  and 
Palomides  a  man  instead  of  an  Arthurian  wraith, 
the  scene  would  be  almost  intolerable  if  indeed 
it  were  not  incredible.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
suppose  such  a  dying  conversation  between  as  good 
a  man  as  Mercutio  or  Richard  Feverel  and  a  woman 
his  equal,  not  separation  alone  would  fill  the  mind. 
They  would  give  our  sorrow  something  of  their  own 
opulence  and  nobility.  But  here  a  perhaps  entirely 
inhuman  sense  of  separation  afflicts  us,  even  less 
than  what  may  be  brought  into  the  heart  through  the 
dying  last  note  of  a  horn  at  evening,  a  door  shutting 
when  there  is  no  other  sound  for  a  long  time  before 
and  after,  or  the  last  of  anything.  It  has  a  rhetori- 
cal effect  equal  to  De  Quincey's  elaborate  description 
of  his  last  hours  at  school  before  running  away,  or 
that  dream  in  the  "Opium  Eater"  which  ends: 
"And  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost, 
female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were  worth  all 


"TROTS   PETITS   DRAMES"  83 

the  world  to  me  ;  and  but  a  moment  allowed — and 
clasped  hands,  with  heart-breaking  partings,  and 
then — everlasting  farewells !  and,  with  a  sigh  such  as 
the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother 
uttered  the  abhorred  name  of  Death,  the  sound  was 
reverberated — everlasting  farewells!  and  again, and 
yet  again  reverberated — everlasting  farewells ! "  It 
is  equal,  but  very  different.  De  Quincey  is  purple, 
Maeterlinck  is  grey  ;  De  Quincey  ends  with  a  full 
orchestra,  Maeterlinck  with  only  a  solitary  voice 
singing  unseen. 

The  effect  of  the  play  is  simpler  and  more  con- 
centrated than  that  of  "  Pell£as  et  MeUisande." 
The  story  is  much  less  a  story,  and  could  not  be 
read  as  one.  There  is  no  sanguinary  Golaud  with  a 
sword,  but  white-bearded  Ablamore,  who  gives  the 
lovers  an  appropriate  end,  since  life,  as  the  doctor 
says,  had  "  ebbed  very  low  in  their  hearts."  When 
Ablamore's  reason  was  shaken  after  shutting  up  the 
lovers  and  before  running  away,  he  climbed  to  a 
tower  and  stretched  his  arms  out  towards  mountain 
and  sea,  "  summoning  the  events  that  too  long  had 
remained  concealed  in  the  horizon,"  as  if  he  were  a 
kind  of  Maeterlinckian  Solness  at  the  topmost  of 
his  tower  calling  upon  the  Mighty  One  to  hear  him 
vowing  that  from  this  day  forward  he  will  be  a 
free  builder.  As  Me"lisande,  coming  from  afar,  is 
saddened  by  the  dark,  huge  castle,  so  is  the  Arcadian 
slave  by  the  many-chambered  palace  of  Ablamore. 
The  life  of  both  Alladine  and  Palomides,  like 
Me"lisande's,  flickers  out  slowly,  even  more  slowly 
and  without  disturbance.  Well  did  Maeterlinck 


84  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

know  his  power  when  he  gave  the  vigorous  name 
of  Palomides  to  his  ghostly  hero  ;  he  knew  that  his 
treatment  would  destroy  everything  belonging  to 
the  name  except  a  splendour.  For  an  apathetic 
symphony  nothing  could  be  more  admirable.  If 
there  is  one  place  in  the  whole  where  a  discord  is 
risked  it  is  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  Palomides 
has  told  Astolaine  his  love  for  Alladine,  has  wept 
and  been  kissed  for  it,  and  has  asked  if  she  also  is 
crying  :  "  These,"  she  says : 

"  These  are  little  tears  ...  let  them  not  sadden 
you.  .  .  .  My  tears  fall  because  I  am  a  woman  ; 
but  woman's  tears,  they  say,  are  not  painful.  .  .  . 
See,  my  eyes  are  already  dry." 

It  is  natural  for  a  woman  in  one  of  Maeterlinck's 
early  plays  to  refer  to  her  tears  as  little  and  to 
describe  herself  to  her  companion ;  but  in  this 
scene  Astolaine  assumes  a  womanly  height  though 
still  pale  and  slender,  and  the  pathos  of  her  "  See, 
my  eyes  are  already  dry  "  becomes  a  little  too  real 
for  the  play— the  author  comes  near  to  asking  too 
much  from  his  marionettes. 

Unlike  all  of  its  predecessors,  "Interieur" 
depends  on  nothing  conventionally  impressive  in 
scenery  and  starts  with  no  prestige  of  any  kind. 
Except  two  children  the  characters  have  no 
names,  but  are  the  old  man,  the  stranger,  the 
peasant,  the  father,  the  mother,  the  two  daughters, 
the  child.  The  scene  is  a  house  standing  in  an 
old  garden  planted  with  willows.  Three  of  the 
ground-floor  windows  are  lit  by  a  lamp,  round 


"TROIS   PETITS   DRAMES"  85 

which  the  family  is  visible :  the  father  in  the 
chimney  corner,  the  mother  resting  one  elbow  on 
the  table  and  gazing  into  vacancy,  and  the  young 
child  asleep  resting  on  the  other  arm,  the  two 
daughters  in  white  sitting  over  their  embroidery  and 
smiling  at  ease.  The  old  man  and  the  stranger 
come  cautiously  into  the  garden.  They  have  to 
announce  that  a  daughter  of  the  house  has  been 
drowned,  and  they  are  undecided  what  to  do ; 
meantime  they  talk  of  the  finding  of  the  body  and 
watch  the  unsuspecting  inmates  of  the  room.  The 
old  man's  grandchild,  Mary,  arrives  and  says  that 
the  bearers  of  the  dead  girl  are  now  quite  near. 
The  sisters  within  come  to  the  window  and  gaze 
unseeing  into  the  darkness.  Mary  thinks  that  they 
are  "  praying  without  knowing  what  they  do  "  ;  she 
says,  "  Tell  them  to-morrow,  grandfather,"  and  the 
two  men  are  losing  time.  Martha  arrives,  and, 
seeing  that  the  people  in  the  house  are  not  crying, 
knows  that  they  have  not  been  told.  The  murmur 
of  the  crowd  is  heard  ;  some  enter  the  garden. 
The  old  man  goes  to  knock  at  the  door  and 
Martha  and  the  stranger  watch  for  the  effect 
among  those  within.  Now  they  see  the  old  man 
in  the  room  ;  the  crowd  press  up  to  the  window. 
They  see  the  mother  beginning  to  understand — 
they  know  that  he  has  told  them ;  he  tries  to 
prevent  the  mother  from  going  out.  Then,  as 
they  see  that  the  inmates  are  coming  out,  the 
crowd  hurries  away,  all  but  the  stranger,  who  waits 
a  little  longer,  and  having  said,  "  The  child  has  not 
awakened!"  goes  out. 


86  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

However  handled,  the  idea  of  this  play  is  per- 
haps quite  original.  There  is  a  hint  of  something 
like  it  in  De  Quincey's  "Suspiria  de  Profundis,"  in 
the  passage  beginning, "  Who  is  this  distinguished- 
looking  young  woman,  with  her  eyes  drooping, 
and  the  shadow  of  a  dreadful  shock  yet  fresh 
upon  every  feature?"  As  the  crowd  looks  in 
unobserved  upon  the  still  ignorant,  bereaved  family 
so  De  Quincey  seems  to  stand  outside  and  watch. 
In  "The  English  Mail-coach"  also  he  does  a 
similar  thing  when  he  paints  the  unsuspecting 
lovers  driving  through  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
an  English  road  in  summer  twilight,  and  the  mail- 
coach,  with  "  Death,  the  crowned  phantom,  with  all 
the  equipage  of  his  terrors,  and  the  tiger  roar  of 
his  voice,"  bearing  down  upon  them.  And  many 
before  and  since,  standing  out  in  the  dark,  must 
have  been  fascinated  by  the  seeming  charmed 
life  of  a  family  group  in  a  lighted  room.  But 
now  the  mere  choice  of  the  subject — the  too 
confident  people  separated  from  the  enemy  only 
by  a  window — seems  peculiarly  Maeterlinck's. 
"Serres  Chaudes,"  with  its  vision  of  things  seen 
isolated  under  a  bell-glass  or  through  the  pane 
of  a  diving-bell,  foretells  "  Interieur,"  and  the 
concluding  sentence  in  the  description  of  the  scene 
recalls  "Serres  Chaudes."  The  people  are  gathered 
round  the  lamp : 

"When  one  of  them  rises,  walks,  or  makes  a 
gesture,  the  movements  appear  grave,  slow,  apart, 
and  as  though  spiritualized  by  the  distance,  the 


"TROIS  PETITS   DRAMES"  87 

light,  and  the  transparent  film  of  the  window- 
panes." 

The  old  man  says  definitely  that  he  seems 
to  see  them  "  from  the  altitude  of  another  world." 
The  whole  piece  is  evidently  elaborated  from 
an  impression  of  a  lighted  interior  seen  thus 
detached,  and  its  effect  is  to  sum  up  and  intensify 
the  feeling  of  a  fascinated  spectator.  In  spite  of 
the  crowd,  the  movement,  and  the  talk  it  remains 
purely  dream-like  and  lacking  in  the  breath  of 
life.  It  is  a  vision  of  the  unconsciousness  of  life, 
of  its  ignorance  of  what  is  before  and  round  about 
it.  The  old  man  reflects  that  the  drowned  girl 
was  living  in  the  morning  and  "  did  not  know 
that  I  should  see  her  again,"  and  he  continues  : 
"  You  live  for  months  by  the  side  of  one  who  is 
no  longer  of  this  world,  and  whose  soul  cannot 
stoop  to  it ;  you  answer  her  unthinkingly.  .  .  . 
They  do  not  themselves  know  what  they  are  !  .  .  . 
Yesterday  evening  she  was  there,  sitting  in  the 
lamplight,  like  her  sisters."  They  do  not  know 
that  they  are  watched :  "  We,  too,"  he  sees,  "  are 
watched."  As  he  stands  and  sees  them,  thinking 
themselves  beyond  the  reach  of  danger,  he  does 
not  know  what  to  do.  The  stranger,  on  the  other 
hand,  thinks  there  is  something  about  them — he 
does  not  know  what — as  if  they  were  not  wholly 
unaware.  One  looks  out  into  the  dark,  smiling 
"at  what  she  does  not  see."  The  little  girl,  Mary, 
seeing  them  so  peaceful,  feels  as  if  she  were  seeing 
them  in  dreams ;  she  begs  hertgrandfather  to  have 


88  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

pity  on  them  :  Martha  says,  "  How  patient  they 
are !  "  When  he  goes  inside  he  faces  towards  the 
window,  but  feels  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  and  turns 
away.  He  speaks,  and  the  bereaved  understand  ; 
they  rush  to  the  door.  All  is  dissolved,  the  little 
undesigned  play  in  the  room  is  over  and  the 
enchantment  at  an  end ;  the  crowd  breaks  up. 
The  child  still  sleeps  in  the  arm-chair,  as  un- 
conscious as  the  dead  girl. 

But  Maeterlinck  is  not  quite  exclusively  the 
spectator,  bent  upon  reproducing  his  vision.  He 
makes  the  old  man  say  that  he  acknowledged 
something  unusual  when  he  last  saw  the  dead  girl 
alive.  She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  some- 
thing, but  perhaps  did  not  dare,  and,  now  that  he 
thinks  of  it,  "  she  smiled  as  people  smile  who 
want  to  be  silent,  or  who  fear  that  they  will  not 
be  understood."  In  the  manner  of  Arkel  he  says  : 
"  What  a  strange  little  soul  she  must  have  had  ! — 
what  a  poor  little,  artless,  unfathomable  soul  she 
must  have  had  !  " — not  because  she  was  she,  but 
because  she  was  human.  The  stranger,  seeing  the 
two  sisters  look  out,  thinks  the  eyes  of  one  are  full 
of  fear,  and  the  old  man  bids  him  "  take  care  ;  who 
knows  how  far  the  soul  may  extend  around  the 
body?"  This  is  the  thought  of  Maeterlinck  the 
philosopher  hovering  unobtrusive  but  unneeded 
about  a  scene  which  his  feeling  alone  makes 
effective. 

"La  Mort  de  Tintagiles"  is  simpler  than  "Alladine 
et  Palomides,"  as  simple,  in  fact,  as  "Les  Aveugles." 
A  child,  a  black  castle  and  a  hidden  queen,  and 


"TROIS   PETITS   DRAMES"  89 

death — that  is  all.  Tintagiles  has  come  from  over 
the  sea  to  an  island  where  dwell  his  sisters,  Ygraine 
and  Bellangere,  and  a  wise  old  man,  Aglovale.  He 
has  been  forced  to  come,  he  does  not  know  why, 
nor  can  they  tell,  except  that  "  the  queen  wished 
it."  They  are  leading  him  to  a  house  near  the 
castle  at  nightfall,  and  it  looks  very  black,  but  the 
windows  are  red,  and  "  it  is  there  that  the  queen 
has  her  throne."  She  is  never  seen,  and  she  never 
leaves  the  castle,  but  her  orders  are  carried  out. 
Suddenly  one  day  Bellangere,  sitting  with  Aglovale 
in  the  castle, bursts  into  tears ;  for  she  had  penetrated 
to  a  forbidden  part  of  the  castle  and  heard  voices 
of  people  who  were  speaking  "  of  a  child  who  had 
arrived  to-day  and  of  a  crown  of  gold."  And 
Ygraine  says:  "She  shall  not  take  him  with- 
out a  struggle."  Aglovale  says  that  their  only 
defence  is  to  enfold  Tintagiles  in  their  "little  arms." 
Tintagiles  has  pain,  and  when  Ygraine  bids  him 
trust  in  her  and  no  evil  can  come,  he  says  :  "  It 
has  come,  sister  Ygraine."  He  notices  that  Agio- 
vale  is  sitting  on  the  threshold  with  his  sword  on 
his  knees  and  that  he  is  wounded.  He  hears  his 
sister's  heart  beat  as  if  bursting,  and  he  cries.  "  I 
have  heard,"  he  says  ;  "  they  .  .  .  they  are  coming." 
Aglovale  also  can  hear,  and  takes  his  sword. 
A  key  turns  in  the  lock.  The  door  slowly 
opens  wider  and  wider  in  spite  of  their  leaning 
against  it  with  all  their  strength,  until  Tintagiles, 
who  has  fainted,  regains  consciousness  and  gives  a 
cry  of  deliverance  ;  then  the  door  shuts  again. 
"  He  is  saved,"  says  Ygraine.  He  is  asleep  between 


go  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

his  sisters  when  the  servants  of  the  queen  go  into 
the  room  and  take  him  away.  He  awakes  with  "  a 
cry  of  supreme  distress,"  and  only  when  his  crying 
is  almost  inaudible  do  his  sisters  awake  and  rush 
out.  Bellangere  has  fallen  and  Ygraine  is  alone 
"  before  a  great  iron  door  in  a  gloomy  vault," 
holding  a  lamp  in  her  hand.  She  shrieks  out,  she 
beats  upon  the  door.  The  voice  of  Tintagiles  is 
heard  on  the  other  side,  asking  her  to  open. 
But  she  cannot,  although  the  child  tells  her  that 
"  She  "  is  coming.  Now  "  It  is  too  late,"  he  says  ; 
"  her  hand  is  at  my  throat."  His  body  is  heard 
falling.  But  she  continues  to  cry  out  for  him  until, 
after  a  long  silence,  she  calls :  "  Monster !  .  .  . 
Monster !  .  .  .  curse  you  !  curse  you  !  .  .  .  I  spit 
on  you  !  "  and  she  "  continues  to  sob  softly,  her 
arms  outspread  against  the  gate,  in  the  gloom." 

In  this  play  the  persons  are  the  feeblest  and  the 
scene  is  the  most  gloomy  and  terrible.  Ygraine 
recalls  how  once  she  felt  almost  happy,  and  "  very 
soon  after,  our  old  father  died,  and  our  two  brothers 
disappeared."  She  has  lived  long  on  the  island, 
"  not  daring  to  understand  the  things  that  hap- 
pened." She  has  wished  to  escape,  but  in  vain. 
She  has  "no  confidence  in  the  future,"  and  they 
have  always  to  be  on  their  guard.  Tintagiles  has 
come  because  the  queen  wished  it,  and  from  the 
first  he  is  evidently  a  sacrifice.  He  has  come  from 
far  away,  to  die  like  Melisande  and  Alladine.  On 
thefother  hand,  the  castle  is  enormous  and  dark, 
and  its  shadow  always  upon  their  house.  It  is 
ruinous,  and  it  is  deep  down  in  the  valley  and  out 


"TROIS   PETITS   DRAMES"  91 

of  the  air.  It  has  many  corridors  and  galleries,  and 
innumerable  stairs.  There  lives  the  queen — "  the 
mother  of  our  mother  " — suspicious,  jealous,  mad, 
and  having  such  great  power  that  the  sisters  live 
there  "  with  a  terrible  weight  on  their  souls."  She 
lies  on  their  souls  like  a  tombstone,  and  no  one 
dares  oppose  her.  If  she  were  to  send  for  Aglovale 
he  would  go  unlingering,  though  he  knows  that  none 
returns,  with  eyes  unclosed.  Tintagiles  is  soon 
crying  in  the  dark  castle,  he  knows  not  why ;  he 
sleeps  "  very  gravely,  with  one  hand  on  his  brow, 
like  a  little  sorrowful  king."  At  his  arrival 
the  sea  has  roared  and  the  trees  moaned.  It  is 
undoubtedly  of  him  that  the  hidden  voices  are 
speaking  when  Bellangere  strays  in  the  castle. 
The  sisters  bar  a  great  door,  but  sitting  on  their 
knee  he  knows  of  evil,  he  hears  long  before  the 
others  the  sound  of  the  enemy  coming.  All  the 
sisters  can  do  is  to  push  vainly  against  the  door. 
Aglovale's  old  sword  is  broken.  The  child  is  taken 
away  in  sleep  though  his  hands  are  plunged  deep 
down  into  his  sisters'  hair,  and  they  are  clutching  at 
one  another  as  if  drowning.  The  stealers  see  that 
one  of  the  sisters  wishes  to  scream  but  cannot. 
Everywhere  is  a  stealthy  quiet  and  the  helplessness 
of  nightmare.  These  people  are  powerless,  and 
yet  it  is  only  slowly  that  they  are  overcome.  The 
great  door,  with  Ygraine  on  one  side  trying  to 
open  it,  and  the  small  Tintagiles  on  the  other 
begging  to  be  saved — this  is  a  scene  from  the 
torture-chambers  of  sleep.  At  first  she  can  hear 
no  sound  of  Tintagiles,  and  calls  in  vain.  Then 


92  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

she  remembers  :  "  I  have  climbed  steps  without 
number,  between  great  pitiless  walls,  and  my  heart 
bids  me  live  no  longer."  The  door  is  of  iron  and 
very  cold,  and  she  sees  some  of  Tintagiles's  golden 
hair  between  the  panels,  which  makes  her  shriek 
and  beat  frantically  against  the  door  and  cry  out : 
"  Listen !  I  blaspheme !  I  blaspheme  and  spit  on 
you ! "  The  rest  is  suspense.  She  is  trying  to 
open  the  door,  breaking  her  nails  and  numbing  her 
fingers  against  the  iron.  On  the  other  side  Tinta- 
giles  hears  the  queen  coming — is  caught  by  her  at 
the  throat — and  falls.  Ygraine  speaks  in  silence  : 

"  Tintagiles  !  .  .  .  Tintagiles!  .  .  .  What  have 
you  done  ?  .  .  .  Give  him  back,  give  him  back  !  .  .  . 
for  the  love  of  God,  give  him  back  to  me !  .  .  .  1 
can  hear  nothing.  .  .  .  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  him  ?  .  .  .  You  will  not  hurt  him.  .  .  .  He 
is  only  a  little  child.  .  .  .  He  cannot  resist.  .  .  . 
Look,  look !  .  .  .  I  mean  no  harm  ...  I  am  on 
my  knees.  .  .  .  Give  him  back  to  us,  I  beg  of  you. 
.  .  .  Not  for  my  sake  only,  you  know  it  well.  .  .  . 
I  will  do  anything.  ...  I  bear  no  ill-will,  you 
see.  ...  I  implore  you,  with  clasped  hands.  .  .  . 
I  was  wrong.  ...  I  am  quite  resigned,  you  see.  .  .  . 
I  have  lost  all  I  had.  .  .  .  You  should  punish  me 
some  other  way.  .  .  .  There  are  so  many  things 
which  would  hurt  me  more  ...  if  you  want  to 
hurt  me  .  .  .  you  shall  see.  .  .  .  But  this  poor  child 
has  done  no  harm.  .  .  .  What  I  said  was  not  true 
.  .  .  but  I  did  not  know.  ...  I  know  that  you  are 
very  good  .  .  .  surely  the  time  for  forgiveness  has 
come !  .  .  .  He  is  so  young  and  beautiful,  and  he 
is  so  small !  .  .  .  You  must  see  that  it  cannot 
be  !  ...  He  puts  his  little  arms  around  your  neck ; 


"TROIS   PETITS   DRAMES"  93 

his  little  mouth  on  your  mouth  ;  and  God  Himself 
could  not  say  him  nay.  .  .  .  You  will  open  the 
door,  will  you  not?  ...  I  am  asking  so  little.  .  .  . 
I  want  him  for  an  instant,  just  for  an  instant  .  .  . 
I  cannot  remember  .  .  .  you  will  understand  ...  I 
did  not  have  time.  .  .  .  He  can  get  through  the 
tiniest  opening.  ...  It  is  not  difficult.  .  .  .  (A 
long,  inexorable  silence}.  .  .  .  Monster !  .  .  .  Monster ! 
....  Curse  you !  .  .  .  Curse  you !  .  .  .  I  spit 
on  you  !  " 

This  is  something  like  realism,  and  the  conclusion 
is  unfit  for  a  marionette.  This  violent  impotence 
of  a  being  who  has  hitherto  offered  no  resistance 
to  fate  would  be  unendurable  unless  nature  defended 
herself  with  laughter.  It  is  an  attempt  to  dramatize 
a  lyric  scene  like  that  summed  up  in  the  lines : 

There  were  two  kingly  children 
That  loved  each  other  dearly — 

They  could  not  come  together, 
The  water  was  so  deep. 

But  it  produces  only  a  lyrical  effect,  if  the  effect 
is  not  altogether  ruined  by  Ygraine's  sudden  curses. 
For  here  nature  seems  to  interrupt  art,  as  if  Shelley 
had  appended  to  the  "  Lines  written  in  dejection 
near  Naples "  such  an  expression  as,  "  Good  God, 
what  a  life  it  is  ! "  They  have  been  threatened 
by  a  physical  evil  from  the  unseen  queen,  but 
have  taken  no  care  to  meet  it  with  physical 
defence.  They  have  fallen  asleep  with  the  child 
instead  of  watching,  and  he  is  carried  away  from 
them.  Very  well,  then  ;  this  is  a  fitting  languor 
for  one  of  these  obsessed,  pale  women  to  show  in  her 


94  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

dream  of  life ;  to  wake  her  up  and  afflict  us  with 
real  and  common  horror  after  the  muffled  and 
far-off  horror  of  the  earlier  acts  is  perhaps  ill- 
mannered  and  unfair.  "  L'  Intruse  "  ends  with 
the  baby's  crying,  "Pelleas  et  Melisande"  with  old 
Arkel's  turning  from  the  dead  woman  to  her  child 
("It  must  live  now"),  "Interieur"  with  the  stir  of 
the  crowd,  and  the  breaking  down  of  the  magic 
wall  round  the  lighted  room  ;  and  these  are  un- 
questionable ends,  like  "  Go,  bid  the  soldiers  shoot." 
But  "  Monster !  .  .  .  I  spit  on  you,"  is  not  such 
a  casting  off  of  the  spell  of  the  play  ;  it  does  not 
appear,  for  instance,  to  be  a  pledge  that  Ygraine 
will  never  again  honour  death  with  terror.  Never- 
theless, as  Mr.  Sutro  has  told  us,  this  is  Maeter- 
linck's favourite  play. 


VI 

EARLY  PLAYS 

WITH  1896  ends  the  work  of  Maeterlinck's 
youth.  It  begins  with  one  volume  of 
poems,  "  Serres  Chaudes,"  in  1889,  and  ends  with 
another,  "  Douze  Chansons,"  in  1896.  Between 
these  the  eight  plays  appeared.  These  are  by 
far  the  more  interesting  part  of  his  early  work,  and, 
unlike  the  poems,  they  surrender  the  best  of  them- 
selves to  readers  who  are  not  perfect  masters  of 
French,  and  all  but  the  best  to  those  who  know 
them  only  in  translations,  the  style  of  the  original 
being  unaffected  to  the  point  of  affectation.  They 
have  the  one-sidedness  and  consequent  exaggeration 
of  youth,  but  also  an  intensity  which  may  prolong 
their  life  beyond  that  of  later  work.  In  his  poems 
he  dwelt  confessedly  upon  curiously  isolated  images 
of  fever  and  the  select  life  of  a  hot-house  or  a 
bell-glass  or  a  dream  of  the  day  or  night.  His 
plays  do  the  same  without  acknowledgment  of 
any  similar  source.  But  in  some  of  them  the 
dream  character  is  strong.  The  play  of  the  seven 
princesses  asleep  on  the  marble  stairs,  if  not  taken 
or  adapted  from  a  picture,  might  have  come  from 

95 


96  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

an  inexplicable  and  inconsequent  dream  ;  while 
the  frenzy,  without  power  or  hope,  of  the  old 
king  and  queen  at  the  end,  when  they  strive  to 
enter  the  death-chamber  and  beat  upon  walls  and 
windows,  is  perfectly  dream-like,  and  has  a  parallel 
in  the  scene  where  Ygraine  tries  to  break  through 
the  impassable  iron  door  behind  which  her  brother 
is  being  murdered.  "L'Intruse"  and  "  Inte"rieur," 
are  studies  of  a  motionless  interior,  commonplace 
in  itself  but  made  intense  by  the  hidden  form  of 
death,  by  isolation,  and  by  a  nervous  monotony  of 
manner.  In  "L'Intruse"  the  words  hardly  break 
the  silence  which  they  accent  and  mysteriously 
fall  into  and  expound  like  stones  dropped  into  deep 
waters.  Had  Maeterlinck  read  James  Thomson's 
"  In  the  Room  "  ?  It  is  a  poem  made  entirely  out 
of  the  silent  voices  of  motionless  things  in  the 
room  of  a  suicide — the  mirror,  the  curtain,  the 
empty  cupboard,  the  glass,  the  table,  the  fire-grate, 
the  little  phial  which  had  been  emptied  of  its 
"  cold  wine  of  death,"  and  the  bed  which  thrilled 
the  gloom  with  tales — 

Of  human  sorrows  and  delights, 
Of  fever  moans  and  infant  wails, 

Of  births  and  deaths  and  bridal  nights. 

"  L'Intruse"  is  equally  still  and  quiet,  the  room 
is  equally  "  silent  and  aware,"  while  the  dramatic 
form  persuades  us  that  the  mystery  is  that  of  life 
itself,  and  not  of  an  indomitably  sad  poet's  heart 
like  B.V.'s. 

The  other  six   plays   are   full   of  the   external 


EARLY   PLAYS  97 

sublime.  They  take  place  on  islands,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  sea  or  of  immense  forests,  in 
high  towers  or  in  castles  or  palaces  honeycombed 
with  innumerable  chambers  and  corridors,  and 
built  upon  rocks  that  are  hollowed  into  great  caves 
and  lakes  reached  by  many  stairs.  The  water,  the 
gloom,  the  labyrinthine  complication  may  well  be 
a  dream  elaboration  of  the  canals,  the  bridges  past 
counting,  and  the  vast  buildings  of  the  ancient  city 
in  which  he  was  born.  The  castles  are  in  perpetual 
shadow,  are  damp,  and  without  any  ordinary  coming 
and  going  of  life.  They  are  inhabited  by  a  brutal 
king's  son,  an  old  man  who  loves  an  unwilling 
young  girl,  a  dotard  who  is  the  slave  of  a 
poisonous  mistress,  a  hideous  and  cruel  queen  un- 
seen but  irresistible.  To  these  castles  and  such 
masters  and  mistresses  come  the  frailest  of 
creatures  :  a  beautiful,  homeless  princess  whose 
rival's  mother  is  omnipotent,  a  lost  princess  in 
rags  who  sickens  at  once  in  the  dark  places,  a 
slave  from  the  heart  of  Arcadia  and  her  pet  lamb, 
a  single  child  sent  from  far  over  the  sea  for  an 
unknown  purpose.  All  miserably  perish,  not  by 
sudden  violence,  but  by  long  days  of  anticipation 
and  fear  and  dungeons,  ending  in  poison,  a  strang- 
ling cord,  a  knife,  a  sword,  and  a  separation  worse 
than  death.  All  of  them  love,  and  have  little 
joy  of  their  love  because  they  have  a  stronger 
rival  or  unrelenting  tyrant.  This  they  know  full 
well,  but  cannot  escape  ;  nor,  as  a  rule,  can  they 
even  try  to  escape.  Thus  the  vastness  and  com- 
plication of  the  world,  the  power  of  fate  and  of 
7 


98  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

cruel  men,  the  littleness  and  feebleness  of  women 
and  children  and  many  men,  are  expressed  in 
clearly  visible  symbols.  Though  marionettes  in 
size,  they  are  also  humanity.  The  people  are  not 
individuals,  but  types  or  personifications  of  man- 
kind, or  a  class,  or  age,  or  sex.  They  are  an  old 
man,  a  young  man,  a  sister,  a  solitary  maiden  from  a 
far  foreign  land,  a  child,  an  old  servant  with  a  rusty 
sword.  Sometimes  they  take  part  in  a  tale  of 
unfortunate  or  forbidden  love,  but  the  romance  or 
the  problem  is  no  part  of  the  interest  of  the  play. 
For  these  are  not  men  and  women,  but  tragical  and 
small  simplifications  of  them.  The  plays  are 
bloodless,  but  not  lifeless  epitomes ;  little  miracle 
plays,  each  with  a  new  variation  upon  the  one  great 
tale  of  the  suffering  of  man  and  the  majesty  of  fate. 
The  characters  speak  either  in  simple,  short  phrases, 
often  repeated,  which  suggest  that  they  are  half 
awake  or  thinking  of  something  else,  or  in  far- 
reaching,  symbolic  phrases  like  "  We  have  never 
seen  the  house  in  which  we  live,"  "  One  would  say 
we  were  always  alone,"  "It  is  too  late,"  "  We  shall 
never  come  back,"  "  We  shall  never  see  one  another 
again  ;  the  doors  are  shut."  Separation,  fear,  help- 
lessness, or  consciousness  of  what  must  happen, 
love  that  is  always  crying  and  never  abandoned, 
prevail.  The  men  and  women  have  many  of  the 
refinements  of  the  most  modern  tea-drinking, 
scented,  cloistered  members  of  the  middle  class,  yet 
we  are  as  little  drawn  to  sympathy  with  them  as 
«ve  should  be  if  they  took  after  their  Arthurian 
names,  Palomides,  Aglovale,  Pelle'as,  and  so  on. 


EARLY   PLAYS  99 

"  They  belong,"  Mr.  William  Archer  thinks, "  to  the 
far  future  rather  than  the  past."  What  they  do 
touches  us  because  we  are  mortal  and  they  have  a 
mortal  frailty  and  sadness,  but  here  is  nothing  of 
the  tears  of  things.  Life  in  this  drama  is  a  dream 
of  a  dream  of  a  dream,  refined,  reduced,  grey  and 
remote,  and  very  quiet.  This  is  how  we  have  come 
to  see  ourselves.  Like  gods  we  look  down  from  an 
altitude  of  dream  or  trance,  and  behold  ourselves 
crawling  uncomfortably  about  eternity  and  infinity. 
Long  ago  men  said  that  mankind  was  like  an 
ant's  nest,  but  they  did  not  believe  it.  Only  a 
theologian  said  it,  and,  for  joy  of  an  ingenious 
invention,  they  repeated  it  as  if  it  were  a  reality. 
But  now  we  can  see  mankind  so.  It  is  not  the 
spaces  of  the  stars  that  terrify  us,  but  the  spaces 
between  one  lover  and  the  other,  between  a  child 
and  the  dead  that  bore  him.  Maeterlinck's  people 
are  pismires,  Arthurian  pismires.  Their  tragedy 
does  not  disturb  or  purge,  but  dignifies  us  through 
creating  us  at  once  Brobdignagians,  in  relation  to 
these  Lilliputians  on  the  stage.  De  Quincey  has 
already  been  mentioned  in  comparison  or  illus- 
tration ;  and,  looking  back  upon  the  early  plays  as 
a  whole,  a  passage  of  the  "  Opium  Eater"  has  more 
than  once  returned  to  my  mind  as  giving  a  picture 
like  that  left  by  the  plays.  I  refer  to  De  Quincey's 
recollection  of  Coleridge's  description  of  Piranesi's 
"  Dreams."  He  says  : 

"  Some    of   these   (I    describe    only    from    the 
memory  of  Coleridge's  account)  represented  vast 


102  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

This  rebelliousness,  equal  to  that  of  Ygraine,  and 
also  essential,  changes  the  poem,  but  the  re- 
semblance to  Maeterlinck  remains  in  the  definitely 
vague  time  and  place,  the  intense  love,  frail  but 
everlasting,  assailed  by  a  death  out  of  heaven,  and 
even  perhaps  in  the  sepulchre  by  the  sea  where 
Annabel  was  '  shut  up.'  But  far  stranger  is  the 
general  resemblance  in  Maeterlinck's  sad  castles  of 
death  to  the  same  poet's  "  City  in  the  Sea."  There 
may  be  no  connection  between  the  two,  in  spite  of 
Poe's  prominence  in  France,  yet  it  is  worth  noticing 
that  the  feeling  most  like  that  of  Maeterlinck's 
scenery  as  of  his  people,  is  to  be  found  in  a  lyric  : 

Lo  !  death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone, 

Far  down  within  the  dim  west, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad,  and  the  worst  and 

the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There,  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turret  silently.  .  .  . 

This  is  pictorial  lyric.  Maeterlinck's  plays  are  not 
lyrical  drama,  but  lyric  dramatized.  He  could 
dramatize — 

Golden  boys  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney  sweepers,  come  to  dust. 


EARLY  PLAYS  103 

He  could  dramatize — 

O  world,  O  life,  O  time, 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb  .  .  . 
or — 

If  I  were  lord  of  Tartary.  .  .  . 

It  is  true  they  do  not  become  dramatic  in  any 
strict  sense,  but  they  are  more  than  mere  transla- 
tions out  of  one  form  into  another.  Thus  the 
lyric  motive  gains  in  volume  as  if  magnified  and 
multiplied  by  the  voices  of  many  instruments. 
"  Pelleas  et  Melisande,"  for  example,  might  have 
grown  out  of  that  fragment  of  song  about  her  long 
hair  unbound  which  Melisande  sings ;  all  that 
long  tale  of  loving  her  lord's  brother  is  little  more 
than  the  blare  and  pomp  of  instruments.  Such 
parts  are  easy  to  overact.  A  woman  with  a 
Burne-Jones  face  and  a  bird-like  voice  needs  to 
do  little  more  than  speak  her  words  clearly  to 
play  Melisande,  for  example.  A  full-sized  living 
actress  breaking  her  fingers  against  a  door  in  the 
part  of  Ygraine  must  be  terrible  to  witness.  The 
scenery  also  of  these  plays  cannot  but  lose  by 
material  representation  on  the  stage.  A  not  too 
clear  mental  image  is  more  appropriate.  The 
terror  of  caves  or  castles  imagined  by  one  who 
has  never  known  it,  is  what  is  necessary,  not  the 
real  terror  of  dark,  dripping  limestone  and  lamp- 
darkened,  still  waters  in  the  labyrinths  of  the 
earth's  bowels.  And  so  with  the  stairs,  the  walls, 
the  corridors,  the  windows,  the  doors — these  are 
mind-stuff,  and  it  is  arrogant  to  translate  them 


102  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

This  rebelliousness,  equal  to  that  of  Ygraine,  and 
also  essential,  changes  the  poem,  but  the  re- 
semblance to  Maeterlinck  remains  in  the  definitely 
vague  time  and  place,  the  intense  love,  frail  but 
everlasting,  assailed  by  a  death  out  of  heaven,  and 
even  perhaps  in  the  sepulchre  by  the  sea  where 
Annabel  was  '  shut  up.'  But  far  stranger  is  the 
general  resemblance  in  Maeterlinck's  sad  castles  of 
death  to  the  same  poet's  "  City  in  the  Sea."  There 
may  be  no  connection  between  the  two,  in  spite  of 
Poe's  prominence  in  France,  yet  it  is  worth  noticing 
that  the  feeling  most  like  that  of  Maeterlinck's 
scenery  as  of  his  people,  is  to  be  found  in  a  lyric  : 

Lo  !  death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone, 

Far  down  within  the  dim  west, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad,  and  the  worst  and 

the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There,  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turret  silently.  .  .  . 

This  is  pictorial  lyric.  Maeterlinck's  plays  are  not 
lyrical  drama,  but  lyric  dramatized.  He  could 
dramatize — 

Golden  boys  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney  sweepers,  come  to  dust. 


EARLY  PLAYS  103 

He  could  dramatize — 

O  world,  O  life,  O  time, 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb  .  .  . 
or — 

If  I  were  lord  of  Tartary.  .  .  . 

It  is  true  they  do  not  become  dramatic  in  any 
strict  sense,  but  they  are  more  than  mere  transla- 
tions out  of  one  form  into  another.  Thus  the 
lyric  motive  gains  in  volume  as  if  magnified  and 
multiplied  by  the  voices  of  many  instruments. 
"  Pelleas  et  Melisande,"  for  example,  might  have 
grown  out  of  that  fragment  of  song  about  her  long 
hair  unbound  which  M61isande  sings ;  all  that 
long  tale  of  loving  her  lord's  brother  is  little  more 
than  the  blare  and  pomp  of  instruments.  Such 
parts  are  easy  to  overact.  A  woman  with  a 
Burne-Jones  face  and  a  bird-like  voice  needs  to 
do  little  more  than  speak  her  words  clearly  to 
play  MeUisande,  for  example.  A  full-sized  living 
actress  breaking  her  fingers  against  a  door  in  the 
part  of  Ygraine  must  be  terrible  to  witness.  The 
scenery  also  of  these  plays  cannot  but  lose  by 
material  representation  on  the  stage.  A  not  too 
clear  mental  image  is  more  appropriate.  The 
terror  of  caves  or  castles  imagined  by  one  who 
has  never  known  it,  is  what  is  necessary,  not  the 
real  terror  of  dark,  dripping  limestone  and  lamp- 
darkened,  still  waters  in  the  labyrinths  of  the 
earth's  bowels.  And  so  with  the  stairs,  the  walls, 
the  corridors,  the  windows,  the  doors — these  are 
mind-stuff,  and  it  is  arrogant  to  translate  them 


io4  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

with  anything  but  a  brush  dipped  in  fog  and 
melancholy.  Nevertheless,  they  have  been  much 
admired  when  put  on  the  stage,  even  when  they 
have  not  been  played  behind  a  curtain  of  black 
gauze.  "  Pell6as  et  Me"lisande  "  in  particular  makes 
a  charming  melancholy  spectacle,  except  at  the 
moments  when  Golaud,  spying  on  the  lovers  or 
chasing  them  with  uplifted  sword,  or  torturing 
Me"lisande's  last  minutes  for  a  confession  of  adultery, 
interrupts  it  with  an  air  of  physical  customary  life. 
The  lost  Melisande  (an  actress  with  a  cooing  voice) 
crying  outstretched  by  the  pool  in  the  forest,  the 
unhappy  wife  singing,  and,  like  William  Morris's 
Rapunzel,  letting  her  marvellous  long  hair  down 
from  a  window  of  the  tower  to  her  lover  below 
— these  things  have  the  beauty  of  scenes  from 
"  Aucassin  and  Nicolete,"  with,  and  even  without, 
the  aid  of  music.  Mr.  J.  W.  Mackail  says  that 
there  was  "only  one  opinion  as  to  the  scenic 
effectiveness "  of  "  Pelle"as  et  Melisande,"  when 
it  was  played  in  London  in  1894  by  M.  Lugne- 
Poe  and  his  company.  Mr.  Archer  goes  so  far 
as  to  say:  "If  one  were  to  rewrite  this  play  (it 
could  quite  well  be  done),  as  a  drama  of  common 
life,  excluding  symbolism  altogether,  one  could 
probably  retain  at  least  half  of  the  existing 
dialogue  ;  and,  where  it  could  be  retained  at  all, 
it  could  not  possibly  be  bettered."  It  has  twice 
been  given  a  musical  form,  in  which  it  gains 
almost  as  much  as  it  loses.  "  La  Mort  de  Tinta- 
giles"  also  has  been  set  to  music. 

Maeterlinck's  own  words  on  these  plays — to  be 


EARLY   PLAYS  105 

found  in  an  Introduction  to  the  three  volumes  of 
his  "Theatre" — are  to  be  admired  for  their  kindliness 
and  clear  sight.  He  republished  the  plays  with 
little  alteration,  not  because  they  were  perfect  but 
because  a  poem  is  not  to  be  bettered  by  a  succession 
of  corrections.  He  could,  he  says,  have  suppressed 
several  things  in  "  Princesse  Maleine,"  including 
most  of  "  those  surprising  repetitions  which  give  the 
characters  the  appearance  of  rather  deaf  somnam- 
bulists constantly  torn  out  of  a  painful  dream  "  ; 
he  would  thus  have  been  spared  some  smiles,  but 
this  lack  of  promptitude  in  hearing  and  replying 
belongs  to  their  psychology  and  their  rather  haggard 
idea  of  the  universe,  and  it  cannot  be  altered  with- 
out destroying  its  one  quality  :  a  certain  harmony 
of  affright  and  gloom.  The  other  plays,  he  says, 
mix  the  Christian  god  with  the  classic  idea  of 
fatality,  in  an  impenetrable  night  of  nature.  There 
is  to  be  found  in  them  an  unknown  which  most 
often  takes  the  place  of  death — death  indifferent, 
inexorable,  blind,  working  almost  by  chance,  taking 
by  preference  the  youngest  and  least  wretched.  And 
this,  he  says,  is  not  without  reason.  For  long  yet — 
unless  a  decisive  discovery  of  science  or  a  revelation 
such  as  a  communication  with  a  planet  older  and 
wiser  than  ours  teaches  us  at  last  the  origin  and 
aim  of  life — for  long,  or  for  ever,  we  shall  be  preca- 
rious and  fortuitous  beings  abandoned  without 
appreciable  designs  to  all  the  breaths  of  an  indif- 
ferent night.  To  paint  this  immense  and  useless 
feebleness  with  some  gesture  of  grace  and  tender- 
ness, some  words  of  sweetness,  frail  hope,  pity  and 


io6  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

love,  is  all  that  can  humanly  be  done  when  life  is 
transported  to  the  verge  of  this  great  indifferent 
truth  which  freezes  energy  and  the  love  of  life. 
But  this  is  not  enough.  We  must  rather  seek  to 
cross  these  boundaries,  to  destroy  our  ignorance, 
to  use  truths  as  admissible  and  more  encouraging. 
The  last  three-quarters  of  a  century  have  made 
impracticable  certain  majestic  or  terrible  incer- 
titudes for  which  poets  used  to  be  thought  great 
and  profound.  The  lyric  poet,  he  continues,  will 
perhaps  not  be  troubled  by  this  evolution  of 
thought.  The  dramatist  must  be  sincere ;  and  even 
so  Tolstoy  and  Ibsen  have  remained  true  to  life 
without  missing  that  sense  of  "  the  mystery  which 
dominates  and  judges  things  " — a  sense  essential  to 
fine  poetry.  He  himself  thought  it  honourable  and 
wise  to  cast  down  death  from  the  throne  to  which 
it  certainly  has  no  right :  in  "  Aglavaine  and 
Selysette  "  he  wished  to  give  part  of  the  ancient 
power  of  death  to  love,  wisdom,  and  happiness ; 
but,  he  says,  he  was  unable.  Death  would  not 
obey,  and  he  had  to  wait  for  a  conqueror  to  be  re- 
vealed. There  is  something  naive  and  touching  in 
this  avowal  of  the  strife  between  the  philospher 
and  the  artist  in  one  breast. 


VII 

PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  :    RUYSBROECK,  EMERSON, 
AND   NOVALIS 

MANY  of  the  conversations  in  the  early  plays, 
and  whole  characters  like  the  old  man  in 
"  Inte>ieur  "  and  Arkel  in  "  Pelteas  et  Melisande," 
might  have  taught  us  that  Maeterlinck  was  not  a 
dramatic  artist  pure  and  simple.  Side  by  side 
with  his  work  of  creation  he  was  reading,  if  not  far 
and  wide,  yet  much  and  deep.  In  1891  he  published 
his  translation  of  "  L'Ornement  des  Noces 
Spirituelles  "  of  the  Flemish  mystic,  Ruysbroeck. 
Maeterlinck  warns  literary  idlers  against  this  book, 
which  is  "  a  boundless  desert,  where  they  will  die 
of  thirst."  It  was  translated  for  "a  few  Platonists," 
fearless  of  the  judgment  which  most  men  will 
pronounce.  They  will  think  it  the  work  of  a 
deluded  monk,  of  a  pale  solitary,  a  hermit,  dizzy 
with  fasting  and  worn  with  fever.  In  reply  to 
such  an  opinion  of  the  mystics,  he  himself  avers 
that  "  they  alone  are  the  possessors  of  certainty," 
and  this  is  exactly  true,  because  the  mystics  alone 
have  had  a  revelation  unquestionable,  if  imperfect, 
which  enables  them  to  grasp  the  whole  of  things  in 
107 


io8  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

a  manner  impossible  to  mundane  intelligence  or 
effort.  Equally  true  is  Maeterlinck's  forecast  of 
the  ordinary  reader's  opinion  of  Ruysbroeck.  The 
opening  chapter,  in  particular,  on  the  three  comings 
of  Christ,  on  the  two  kinds  of  humility  in  Jesus 
Christ,  on  the  abdication  of  the  will,  on  zeal  and 
diligence,  etc.,  are  of  an  aridity  which  compels  the 
question  whether  the  words  correspond  to  things 
at  all ;  no  trace  is  left  in  them  of  the  life  of  the 
man  in'  his  hut  at  Gronendal,  in  the  forest  of 
Soignes,  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
They  make  us  think  of  a  man  fed  exclusively  on 
books,  whereas  in  fact  he  knew  no  Greek  and 
perhaps  no  Latin,  was  alone  and  poor.  And  yet, 
as  Maeterlinck  says,  "  He  knows,  though  he  is 
unaware  of  it,  the  Platonism  of  Greece,  the  Sufism  of 
Persia,  the  Brahmanism  of  India,  and  the  Buddhism 
of  Thibet."  He  was  one  who  knew  the  divine 
splendour  which  blinds  all  created  vision  and 
causes  reason  and  all  created  light  to  cease  ;  and 
knew  that  in  this  light,  though  the  power  of 
observation  and  distinction  is  lost,  a  man's  eyes 
are  truly  opened  in  the  stillness  and  emptiness  of 
the  spirit  where  he  has  lost  himself  in  the  love  of 
God.  The  pure  satisfaction  of  the  heart  was  not 
only  greater  than  any  which  earth  could  bestow, 
but  greater  for  the  body  as  well  as  the  soul — so 
great  that,  in  its  intoxication,  one  man  would 
imagine  that  the  whole  world  was  partaking  of  it 
and  another  that  he  was  the  first  to  taste.  He 
thought  that  the  spirit  was  more  exalted  and 
nature  more  humbled  in  heavy  suffering  than  in 


PHILOSOPHIC   STUDIES  109 

great  works.  Nor  is  it  the  only  place  where  his 
1'mitations  are  clear,  when  he  says  that  God  does 
not  will,  nor  counsel,  nor  effect  in  any  man  things 
which  are  contrary  to  the  teaching  of  Christ  and  of 
the  Church.  He  was  a  Christian  who  happened  to 
be  a  mystic,  not  a  mystic  who  happened  to  be  a 
Christian.  What  is  fundamental  in  his  Christianity, 
and  what  Maeterlinck  quotes  from  his  other  books, 
seems  to  show  that  his  qualities  were  for  the  most 
part  of  a  local  and  temporary  kind.  I  shall  quote 
an  example  from  a  book  interpreting  the  Jewish 
sacrifices  and  the  symbols  of  the  ark  of  the 
covenant  partly  for  its  own  sake,  but  more  because 
it  may  reveal  to  us  something  of  Maeterlinck.  He 
is  speaking  of  the  offering  of  the  poor  : 

"  And  they  [the  doves]  shall  keep  near  streams 
and  beside  clear  waters,  so  that  if  any  bird  flies 
downwards  to  seize  them  or  to  do  them  any  injury, 
they  may  recognize  him  by  his  reflection  in  the 
water  and  beware  of  him.  The  clear  water  is 
Holy  Scripture,  the  lives  of  saints,  and  the 
mercy  of  God.  We  shall  reflect  ourselves  therein 
when  we  are  tempted,  and  so  none  shall  be 
able  to  hurt  us.  These  doves  have  a  loving 
nature,  and  young  doves  are  often  born  of  them, 
for  wherever,  to  the  glory  of  God  and  for  our 
own  felicity,  we  think  of  sin  with  scorn  and  hatred, 
and  6f  virtue  with  love,  we  give  birth  to  young 
doves — that  is  to  say,  to  new  virtues." 

Doubtless  Maeterlinck,  like  many  another,  could 
at  one  time  envy  the  freedom  from  nature  in  this 
and  many  other  passages — a  freedom  so  much 


no  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

more  easy  and  complete  than  any  achieved  by 
him  in  "  Serres  Chaudes,"  as  he  must  also  have 
envied  him  "  a  language  which  has  the  intrinsic 
omnipotence  of  tongues  which  are  almost 
immemorial."  The  Flemish  dialect,  he  continues  : 

"  The  Flemish  dialect  possesses  this  omnipotence, 
and  it  is  possible  that  several  of  its  words  still 
contain  images  dating  from  the  glacial  epochs. 
Our  author,  then,  had  at  his  disposal  one  of  the 
very  oldest  modes  of  speech,  in  which  words  are 
really  lamps  behind  ideas,  while  with  us  ideas 
must  give  light  to  words.  I  am  also  disposed  to 
believe  that  every  language  thinks  always  more 
than  the  man,  even  the  man  of  genius,  who 
employs  it,  and  who  is  only  its  heart  for  the  time 
being,  and  that  this  is  the  reason  why  an  ignorant 
monk  like  this  mysterious  Ruysbroeck  was  able,  by 
gathering  up  his  scanty  forces  in  prayers  so  many 
centuries  ago,  to  write  works  which  hardly  corre- 
spond to  any  scenes  in  the  present  day." 

This  last  sentence  contains  a  highly  character- 
istic but  perhaps  not  entirely  original  thought. 
And  as  to  Flemish,  it  may  be  noticed  here  that 
a  French  critic  has  said  that  it  is  well  for 
Maeterlinck  to  be  a  Belgian  :  "  For  he  knows  the 
language  like  a  foreigner  who  is  without  a  sense 
of  the  tradition.  He  has  provincialisms,  some- 
thing slow  and  uneasy  in  his  manner,  awkward  and 
inexact.  Not  finding  the  right  word,  he  uses  several 
of  the  second  best.  It  is  a  style  that  trembles." 
And  thus  he  is  helped  in  giving  an  impression 
of  mystery. 


PHILOSOPHIC   STUDIES  in 

With  this  admiration  for  the  primitive,  and  even 
primeval  Ruysbroeck,  should  be  contrasted  his 
scorn  for  the  excessively  modern  and  purely 
literary.  He  knows  that  Ruysbroeck  is  obscure,  he 
says,  but  believes — 

"  That  a  sincere  and  honest  author  is  never 
obscure  in  the  eternal  sense  of  the  word,  because 
he  always  understands  himself,  in  a  way  which 
is  infinitely  beyond  anything  that  he  says.  It  is 
only  artificial  ideas  which  spring  up  in  real 
darkness  and  flourish  solely  in  literary  epochs  and 
in  the  insincerity  of  self-conscious  ages,  when  the 
thought  of  the  writer  is  poorer  than  his  expression." 

He  goes  on,  with  the  help  of  Carlyle's  "  Woe  to 
us  if  we  have  nothing  in  us  except  that  which 
we  can  express  and  show  to  others,"  and  with 
the  help  of  Plotinus,  to  write  a  most  eloquent 
piece  of  prose  full  of  images  peculiarly  his  own, 
comparing,  e.g.,  some  of  Ruysbroeck's  phrases  with 
"transparent  icicles  on  the  colourless  sea  of 
silence."  This  introduction  leaves  us  with  a  know- 
ledge of  Maeterlinck's  interest  in  Ernest  Hello, 
Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Novalis,  Coleridge,  Plato, 
Behmen,  and  Carlyle,  and  an  admiration  for  his 
power  of  graceful  and  ingenious  appreciation. 
It  is  the  writing  of  one  who  perhaps  could  not 
write  ill.  But  it  is  neither  original  nor  profound, 
and  it  reveals  chiefly  a  man  of  temperament.  It 
reveals  too  the  lover  of  "  divine  metaphysic,"  and 
in  the  numerous  quotations  it  is  not  hard  to  see, 
not  the  source  perhaps,  but  the  impulse,  of  much 


in  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

later  writing.     Take,  for  an  example,  the  following 
from  another  book  by  Ruysbroeck  : 

"  But  above  all  things,  if  we  desire  to  enjoy 
God,  or  to  experience  eternal  life  within  us,  we 
must  rise  far  above  human  reason,  and  enter  into 
God  through  faith  ;  and  there  we  shall  remain 
pure,  at  rest,  and  free  from  all  similitudes,  lifted  by 
love  into  the  open  nakedness  of  thought.  For 
when  in  love  we  die  to  all  things,  when  in 
ignorance  and  obscurity  we  die  to  all  the  notice 
of  the  world,  we  are  wrought  and  reformed  by  the 
eternal  Word,  who  is  an  image  of  the  Father.  And 
in  the  repose  of  our  spirit  we  receive  the  incompre- 
hensible splendour  which  envelopes  and  penetrates 
us,  just  as  the  air  is  penetrated  by  the  bright- 
ness of  the  sun.  And  this  splendour  is  merely 
a  boundless  vision  and  a  boundless  beholding. 
What  we  are,  that  we  behold ;  and  what  we 
behold,  that  we  are  ;  for  our  thought,  our  life,  and 
our  essence  are  closely  united  with  that  truth  which 
is  God,  and  are  raised  along  with  it.  And  that  is 
why,  in  this  pure  vision,  we  are  one  life  and  one 
spirit  with  God  ;  and  this  is  what  I  call  a  con- 
templative life.  .  .  . 

If  Maeterlinck  had  lived  at  Gronendal  in  the 
fourteenth  century  he  would  have  written  thus. 
Indeed,  the  hermit  of  Gronendal  is  to  be  divined 
more  simply  from  "  L'Ornement  des  Noces 
Spirituelles,"  than  is  the  citizen  of  Ghent  and 
the  hermit  of  Grasse  from  "Le  Tre"sor  des 
Humbles." 

In  1894  appeared  I.  Will's  translation  of  seven  of 
Emerson's  essays  into  French,  accompanied  by  an 


PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  113 

Introduction  from  Maeterlinck.  These  essays  are 
"  Confidence,"  "  Compensation,"  "  Spiritual  Laws," 
"The  Poet,"  "Character,"  "The  Over-Soul,"  and 
"  Fatality."  The  Introduction  is  a  piece  of  Maeter- 
linck's work  which  is  interesting  because  it  shows 
us  how  naively  he  submitted  himself  to  Emerson's 
influence :  it  is,  in  fact,  little  more  than  a  very 
gracious  variation  upon  an  idea  in  "  Spiritual 
Laws."  "  The  child  who  meets  me  will  not  be 
able,"  says  Maeterlinck,  "to  tell  his  mother  what 
he  has  seen ;  and  yet,  as  soon  as  his  eye  has 
taken  me  in,  he  knows  all  I  am  and  have  been 
as  well  as  my  brother  and  three  times  as  well 
as  myself.  .  .  .  He  has  known  me,  for  a  moment, 
as  exactly  as  God."  Then,  again,  he  speaks  of 
people  in  a  room  talking  of  the  rain  and  the  fine 
weather  ;  but  under  this  poor  stuff  their  souls  are 
holding  such  converse  as  no  human  wisdom  could 
touch  save  at  its  peril  ;  and  this  is  why  they 
have  a  kind  of  mysterious  joy  of  their  ennui, 
without  knowing  that  which  within  them  is  aware 
of  the  laws  of  life,  of  death,  and  of  love  that  pass 
like  incorruptible  floods  about  the  house.  He  is 
going,  he  supposes,  to  see  for  the  first  time  a 
friend  whose  work  he  already  knows.  This  man 
comes  in  ;  behold  !  all  the  explanations  which  he 
has  given  us  for  years  crumble  to  dust  at  the 
motion  of  the  door  as  it  opens  upon  him.  He  is  not 
what  he  thinks  himself;  he  is  different  from  his 
thought.  For  we  live  only  as  one  soul  to  another, 
and  we  are  gods  who  ignore  one  another,  and 
the  strangest  thing  in  man  is  the  gravity  and 
8 


ii4  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

wisdom  that  lies  hid  in  him.  Beyond  our  in- 
voluntary agitations  we  lead  a  marvellous  existence, 
still  and  pure  and  unerring,  and  this  is  hinted 
unceasingly  by  the  stretching  of  the  hands,  the 
opening  of  the  eyes,  the  meeting  of  glances.  All 
our  organs  are  mystic  instruments  of  a  superior 
being,  and  we  know  not  a  man  but  always  a  soul. 
He  was  not  the  poor  beggar  on  my  steps  that 
I  saw,  but  something  else  :  in  our  eyes  two 
destinies  saluted  one  another  kindly,  and,  as  he  put 
out  his  hand,  the  little  door  of  the  house  gave 
a  view,  though  for  but  an  instant,  of  the  sea. 
So  far  Maeterlinck,  and  it  is  charming.  But  he 
himself  quotes  the  passage  from  Emerson  where  he 
says  that  his  'accomplishments  and  his  money 
avail  nothing  with  his  child  ;  what  is  in  his  soul 
alone  counts.  The  disciple  is  careless,  perhaps 
oblivious,  of  the  fact  that  in  his  master's  essay 
on  "  Spiritual  Laws  "  the  following  passage  occurs  : 

"  A  man  passes  for  what  he  is  worth.  Very  idle 
is  all  curiosity  concerning  other  people's  estimate 
of  us,  and  idle  is  all  fear  of  remaining  unknown. 
If  a  man  knows  that  he  can  do  anything — that  he 
can  do  it  better  than  any  one  else — he  has  a  pledge 
of  the  acknowledgment  of  that  fact  by  all  persons. 
The  world  is  full  of  judgment-days,  and  into  every 
assembly  that  a  man  enters,  in  every  action  he 
attempts,  he  is  gauged  and  stamped.  In  every 
troop  of  boys  that  whoop  and  run  in  each  yard 
and  square,  a  new-comer  is  as  well  and  accurately 
weighed  in  the  balances,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days,  and  stamped  with  his  right  number,  as  if  he 
had  undergone  a  formal  trial  of  his  strength,  speed, 


PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  115 

and  temper.  A  stranger  comes  from  a  distant 
school  with  better  dress,  with  trinkets  in  his 
pockets,  with  airs,  and  pretension.  An  old  boy 
sniffs  thereat,  and  says  to  himself,  '  It's  of  no  use : 
we  shall  find  him  out  to-morrow.' 

"  Always  as  much  virtue  as  there  is,  so  much 
appears  ;  as  much  goodness  as  there  is,  so  much 
reverence  it  commands.  All  the  devils  respect 
virtue.  The  high,  the  generous,  the  self-devoted 
sect  will  always  instruct  and  command  mankind. 
Never  a  sincere  word  was  utterly  lost.  Never 
magnanimity  fell  to  the  ground.  Always  the 
heart  of  man  greets  and  accepts  it  unexpectedly. 
A  man  passes  for  what  he  is  worth.  What  he  is 
engraves  itself  on  his  face,  on  his  form,  on  his 
fortunes,  in  letters  of  light,  which  all  men  may  read 
but  himself.  Concealment  avails  him  nothing ; 
boasting  nothing.  There  is  confession  in  the 
glances  of  our  eyes,  in  our  smiles,  in  salutations, 
and  the  grasp  of  hands.  His  sin  bedaubs  him, 
mars  all  his  good  impressions.  Men  know  not  why 
they  do  not  trust  him.  His  vice  glasses  his  eye, 
demeans  his  cheek,  pinches  the  nose,  sets  the  mark 
of  the  beast  on  the  back  of  the  head,  and  writes 
'  O  fool !  fool ! '  on  the  forehead  of  a  king." 

This  leaves  Maeterlinck  with  little  for  himself. 
Emerson  has  exaggerated  beyond  the  warrant  of 
experience  ;  Maeterlinck  exaggerates  a  little  more, 
giving  the  thought  a  turn  of  his  own  and  a  yet 
greater  unreality.  And  even  so  he  cannot  conceal, 
though  he  disguise,  his  humble  discipleship.  Emer- 
son has  written  :  "  I  love  and  honour  Epaminondas, 
but  I  do  not  wish  to  be  Epaminondas.  I  hold  it 
more  just  to  love  the  world  of  this  hour  than  the 


n6  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

world  of  his  hour.  .  .  .  Besides,  why  should  we  be 
cowed  by  the  name  of  Actaeon  ?  Tis  a  trick  of  the 
senses — no  more."  Then  Maeterlinck,  in  this  Intro- 
duction, writes  :  "  There  is  no  great  life  and  no  little 
life,  and  the  action  of  Regulus  or  of  Leonidas  is  un- 
important when  I  compare  it  with  a  moment  of  my 
soul's  secret  life.  Regulus  and  Leonidas  replace 
Epaminondas."  And  he  continues :  "  Emerson 
comes  to  affirm  the  equal  and  secret  grandeur  of  our 
life.  He  has  shown  all  the  forces  of  heaven  and 
earth  busy  in  sustaining  the  threshold  where  two 
people  are  talking  of  the  rain  and  the  wind,  and 
over  the  heads  of  two  wayfarers  greeting  one 
another  he  has  shown  us  a  God  smiling  upon  a 
God."  Here  he  repeats  himself,  and  varies  a 
phrase  in  "  The  Over-Soul,"  where  Emerson  says 
"  that  somewhat  higher  in  each  of  us  overlooks 
this  by-play,  and  Jove  nods  to  Jove  from  behind 
each  of  us.  Jove  replaces  God  ;  nothing  more. 
Emerson,  at  least,  gives  illustrative  instances 
out  of  his  experience  or  his  reading  ;  Maeterlinck's 
variations  smack  less  of  Ghent  or  Paris  than  his 
master's  of  Boston,  and  it  is  remarkable  that,  at 
the  age  of  thirty,  he  should  be  incapable  of 
asserting  himself  in  the  presence  of  another  writer, 
and  so  uncritical  as  not  to  have  observed  or 
corrected  correspondences  at  once  clear  and  funda- 
mental. 

A  year  later,  when  Maeterlinck  published,  with 
an  Introduction,  his  translation  of  "  The  Disciples 
at  Sals"  and  some  of  the  fragments  of  Novalis, 
he  gave  a  further  proof  of  his  naive  submission  to 


PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  117 

the  thought  of  Emerson.  In  "The  Over-Soul " 
Emerson  had  written : 

"  The  soul  is  superior  to  its  knowledge,  wiser 
than  any  of  its  works.  The  great  poet  makes  us 
feel  our  own  wealth,  and  then  we  think  less  of 
his  compositions.  His  greatest  communication  to 
our  mind  is  to  teach  us  to  despise  all  he  has  done. 
Shakespeare  carries  us  to  such  a  lofty  strain  of 
intelligent  activity  as  to  suggest  a  wealth  which 
beggars  his  own ;  and  we  then  feel  that  the 
splendid  works  which  he  has  created,  and  which 
in  other  hours  we  extol  as  a  sort  of  self-existent 
poetry,  take  no  stronger  hold  of  real  nature  than 
the  shadow  of  a  passing  traveller  on  the  rock." 

This  passage  Maeterlinck  quotes  in  his  introduc- 
tion to  the  translations  from  Novalis,  after  he  has 
been  urging  that  "all  that  does  not  go  beyond 
mere  experimental  and  everyday  wisdom  does  not 
belong  to  us  and  is  not  worthy  of  our  soul,"  and 
has  written  as  follows  about  "  Othello  "  : 

"  We  listen  to  the  dialogue  between  the  Moor 
and  Desdemona  as  a  perfect  thing,  but  without 
being  able  to  put  aside  matters  more  profound. 
Whether  Othello  has  been  deceived  or  not  by  the 
noble  lady  of  Venice,  he  has  another  life.  Even 
at  the  moment  of  his  most  wretched  suspicions  and 
most  brutal  anger,  events  a  thousand  times  more 
sublime  must  have  been  passing,  in  his  soul  and 
about  his  body,  which  his  ravings  could  not  trouble  ; 
and  behind  the  superficial  disturbance  of  jealousy 
another  and  impregnable  existence  maintained 
itself  which,  so  far,  the  genius  of  man  has  only 
presented  in  passing. 


n8  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

"  Does  the  sadness  of  the  masterpieces  spring 
from  this  ?  Poets  could  not  write  except  on  con- 
dition that  they  shut  their  eyes  to  the  terror  of  the 
infinite,  and  enforced  silence  upon  the  too  deep 
and  thronging  voices  of  their  souls.  If  they  had 
not  done  this,  they  must  have  lost  heart.  Nothing 
is  sadder  or  more  deceptive  than  a  masterpiece, 
because  nothing  shows  more  clearly  man's  power- 
lessness  to  acknowledge  his  own  grandeur  and 
dignity.  And  if  a  voice  had  not  taught  us  that 
the  most  beautiful  things  are  nothing  compared 
with  what  we  are,  nothing  would  have  humiliated 
us  more." 

Maeterlinck  soars  up  and  away  from  his  original 
in  a  beautiful  manner,  pointing  out,  for  example, 
that  if  a  being  from  another  world  came  down  and 
asked  us  for  the  supreme  works  of  the  human 
spirit,  we  should  be  unjust  to  offer  "  Othello," 
"King  Lear,"  and  "Hamlet."  "No,  we  are  not 
that !  ...  we  are  invisible  beings.  .  .  .  We  should 
have  nothing  to  say  to  the  heavenly  visitor,  and 
nothing  to  show  him,  and  our  most  perfect  works 
would  suddenly  appear  to  us  like  those  poor  family 
treasures  that  seemed  so  precious  to  us  at  the 
bottom  of  a  drawer,  but  appear  so  trifling  when 
for  a  moment  they  are  taken  out  from  their  dark- 
ness before  an  indifferent  eye."  No,  if  anything 
could  touch  this  imaginary  visitor  it  would  be  the 
spectacle  of  a  man  praying,  with  "thoughts  that 
have  no  name  and  lips  that  cannot  speak,"  or  of 
those  whose  works  "  border  close  upon  silence " ; 
and  he  himself  would  not  blush  if  the  stranger 
surprised  him  reading  Pascal,  Emerson,  or  Hello — 


PHILOSOPHIC  STUDIES  119 

"  and  perhaps  he  himself  would  thence  have  some 
idea  of  a  fellow-being  condemned  to  silence,  or 
would  know  at  least  that  we  are  not  all  satisfied 
with  ourselves  as  inhabitants  of  the  earth."  It  is 
as  if  Emerson  had  taken  us  to  a  favourable  peak 
of  earth  from  which  to  behold  some  miracle  of 
cloudland,  and  Maeterlinck  alone  of  the  company 
had  flown  up  to  the  clouds  for  a  brief  tour  of 
inspection.  It  may  be  easy  to  exaggerate  his 
indebtedness,  but  it  is  certainly  apparent  at  many 
points.  Here  again,  for  example,  he  advances  to 
a  yet  more  dizzy  height  from  Emerson's  remark 
about  the  unconscious  wisdom  of  a  child  in 
"  Spiritual  Laws." 

"  Put  in  the  balance  against  the  unconscious 
wisdom  of  that  child  passing  yonder  all  the  words 
of  the  great  sages,  and  you  will  see  that  what 
Plato,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Schopenhauer,  and  Pascal 
have  revealed  to  us  will  not  cause  the  great 
treasures  of  unconsciousness  to  rise  up  one  hair's- 
breadth,  for  the  silence  of  the  child  is  a  thousand 
times  more  wise  than  the  speech  of  Marcus 
Aurelius." 

He  adds,  it  must  always  be  remembered, 
that  "if  Marcus  Aurelius  had  not  written  his 
twelve  books  of  '  Meditations,'  part  of  the  un- 
known treasures  of  this  child  would  not  be  the 
same."  A  very  impressive  variation  upon  the 
same  theme  is  where  he  says  that  but  for  Plato, 
Swedenborg,  or  Plotinus,  the  soul  of  the  peasant 
who  has  never  heard  of  them  would  not  be  what 


i2o  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

it  is  to-day.  He  calls  Novalis  an  ecstatic  and 
melodious  child  with  a  sense  of  unity.  There  can 
be  little  doubt  that  Maeterlinck  is  curiously  aware 
of  the  inexpressible  mysteries  of  life,  but  he  has 
scarcely  begun  to  show  that  he  is  aware  of  them 
with  his  own  spirit,  and  not  only  through  Emer- 
son's, as  through  a  telescope.  His  examples  are 
still  like  those  of  Emerson,  and  might  have  been 
modelled  on  them  with  a  difference  for  the  sake  of 
a  difference.  It  is  in  his  simple  sense  of  mystery 
that  he  shows  himself,  if  at  all.  We  see,  for 
example,  the  writer  of  the  early  plays  in  a  phrase 
like  :  "  We  are  slaves,  who  cannot  preserve  the  love 
of  life  except  by  increasing,  without  being  dis- 
mayed, the  pitiless  load  of  their  chains,"  or 
where  he  says  that  it  is  hard  to  question  the  soul 
and  to  recognize  "  its  little,  child-like  voice  "  amid 
the  vain  clamours  that  encompass  it.  We  see  him 
in  his  description  of  the  mother  of  Novalis  as  one 
of  those  sweet  and  pious  mothers  who  are  content 
to  be  silent  and  to  hide  all  they  know  and  divine 
under  "  a  pitiful  smile  of  humility  " — un  pauvre 
sourire  humilti ;  yet  he  knows  nothing  of  this 
woman,  except  that  "  it  is  the  mothers  that  make 
men's  souls."  But  for  the  rest,  the  writing  is 
mainly  dependent,  if  not  imitative.  If  it  has  an 
airy,  spiritual  fervour  it  seems  also  to  lack  con- 
viction. The  "  probably  "  in  the  following  sentence 
betrays  rather  the  caution  of  the  intellect  than  the 
meek  confidence  of  the  spirit :  "  It  is  probably," 
he  writes,  "  at  the  point  where  man  seems  to  come 
to  an  end  that  he  begins."  But,  having  set  up  this 


PHILOSOPHIC   STUDIES  121 

"  probably,"  he  advances  with  equanimity,  saying 
that  the  essential  and  steadfast  parts  of  man  belong 
only  to  the  invisible,  and  that  on  the  faint  peaks 
where  he  dwells  with  the  invisible  are  to  be  seen 
perhaps  the  lights  which  alone  upon  earth  are 
beacons  in  the  spiritual  world. 

Novalis  does  not  so  easily  make  a  disciple  as 
Emerson.  He  is  less  emphatic  and  less  didactic, 
and  no  one  is  farther  from  being  a  professional 
writer  and  moralist.  But  we  feel  the  presence 
of  a  kindred  nature  to  Maeterlinck  in  his  unearth- 
liness,  in  the  description  of  the  child  who  was  one 
of  the  disciples  at  Sals  : 

"  Scarcely  was  he  there  but  the  Master  wished 
to  resign  the  teaching  into  his  hands.  This  child 
had  great  dark  eyes  with  blue  depths  ;  his  skin 
shone  like  lilies,  and  his  locks  like  lustrous  cloud- 
lets at  eventide.  His  voice  thrilled  through  our 
hearts ;  we  would  have  gladly  given  him  our 
flowers,  stones,  feathers,  all  that  we  had.  He 
smiled  with  an  infinite  gravity ;  we  felt  strangely 
happy  to  be  beside  him.  One  day  he  will  return, 
said  the  Master,  and  live  among  us.  Then  the 
lessons  will  cease.  .  .  ." 

"  The  silence  of  the  child,"  as  Maeterlinck  says, 
"is  wiser  than  the  speech  of  Marcus  Aurelius." 
Novalis  had  said  that  "  the  fresh  gaze  of  a  child  is 
less  bounded  than  the  presentiment  of  the  most 
pure  of  seers."  But  Novalis  had  none  of  the  gift 
of  Emerson  and  Maeterlinck  for  multiplication. 
Having  said  that"  Philosophy  is,  properly  speaking, 


12*  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

home-sickness,  the  desire  to  be  at  home  in  the 
world,"  he  says  no  more  ;  having  said  that  "If  God 
became  a  man,  He  could  also  become  stone,  plant, 
animal,  element,  and  perhaps  in  that  way  there  is 
a  liberation  continually  going  on  in  nature,"  he 
says  no  more.  He  said  :  "  Man  began  with  instinct 
and  will  end  with  it,"  and  Maeterlinck  has 
multiplied  the  thought.  Equally  prophetic  is  he 
when  he  speaks  of  virtue  disappearing  and  be- 
coming innocence.  He  foresees  poetry  such  as  the 

symbolists  tried  to  write  when  he  speaks  of 

# 

"  Poems  which  are  simply  sonorous  and  full  of 
impressive  words,  but  without  sense  and  cohesion, 
of  which  at  most  only  pen-strokes  are  comprehen- 
sible, like  fragments  of  the  most  diverse  things. 
This  true  poetry  might  have,  at  most,  a  general 
allegoric  sense  and  an  indirect  action  like  that  of 
music.  This  is  why  nature  is  so  purely  poetical, 
like  the  call  of  a  magician  or  physician,  a  nursery, 
a  granary,  a  market,  etc." 


VIII 

LATER  POEMS  :  "  QUINZE  CHANSONS  " 

MAETERLINCK  published  three  books  in 
1896.  "  Le  Tr6sor  des  Humbles  "  marks  a 
beginning,  and  is  largely  prophetic,  and  "  Aglavaine 
et  Selysette  "  points  both  to  the  future  and  to  the 
past  of  his  work.  "  Douze  Chansons "  belongs 
entirely  to  the  past ;  but  it  has  now  been  enlarged 
as  "  Quinze  Chansons,"  and  includes  the  virgin's 
song  from  "  Sceur  Beatrice,"  the  song  about  Orla- 
monde's  five  daughters  from  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe 
Bleue,"  and  a  song  for  Melisande  in  place  of  "  Mes 
longs  cheveux  descendent."  The  poems  in  this 
second  volume  are  clearly  connected  in  style  with 
the  early  plays,  and  especially  with  "Les  Sept 
Princesses."  Most  of  them  look  like  rudimentary 
allegories,  and  depend  for  their  power  upon  a 
mysterious  use  of  numbers  and  an  appearance  of 
condensed  significance,  equally  mysterious.  Some 
one  chains  a  maiden  in  a  grotto,  where  she  forgets 
the  light ;  a  sign  is  made  on  the  door,  and  the 
key  falls  into  the  sea.  She  waits  for  the  days  of 
the  summer  ;  she  waits  more  than  seven  years, 
like  the  "  seven  long  years  by  land  and  sea  "  of  the 

123 


124  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

ballads  ;  and  each  year  some  one  passes  by.  She 
waits  for  the  winter  days,  and  her  hairs  remember 
the  light — they  find  it,  and  glide  between  the 
stones  and  light  up  the  rocks.  One  evening,  some 
one  passing  by  notices  the  light,  but  does  not 
understand  and  does  not  approach.  He  thinks  it 
a  strange  sign — a  spring  of  gold — angel's  work  ; 
at  any  rate,  he  turns  aside  and  goes  away. 

Another  poem  of  four  verses  tells  how  three 
little  girls  were  killed  to  see  what  was  in  their 
hearts  : 

They  have  slain  three  little  girls 
To  see  what's  in  their  hearts. 

The  first  was  full  of  happiness ; 
And  everywhere  her  blood  flowed 
For  three  years  hissed  three  serpents. 

The  second  was  full  of  gentleness  ; 
And  everywhere  her  blood  flowed 
Three  lambs  for  three  years  browsed. 

The  third  was  full  of  misery ; 

And  everywhere  her  blood  flowed 

Three  archangels  for  three  years  kept  watch. 

If  this  were  an  old  poem  it  would  keep  the 
learned  busy  many  years  to  no  purpose ;  but,  as 
it  was  made  up  by  Maeterlinck,  its  meaning  need 
not  trouble  learned  or  unlearned,  while,  apart  from 
a  meaning,  the  images  can  only  satisfy  those  who 
have  a  love  of  mystery  for  its  own  sake  as  well  as 
a  natural  feeling  for  numbers.  It  is  not  likely 
that  Maeterlinck  wished  to  teach  that  misery  here 
begets  happiness  hereafter.  In  another  poem  some 


LATER  POEMS:   "QUINZE   CHANSONS"   125 

girls  with  bandaged  eyes  are  seeking  their  destinies. 
At  midday  they  open  the  palace  in  the  meadows, 
and  salute  life,  but  do  not  go  out.  In  another 
there  are  three  blind  sisters  with  golden  lamps, 
who  ascend  the  tower  and  wait  seven  days,  when 
the  first  says,  "  I  am  waiting  for  our  lights  "  ;  the 
second,  "  The  king  is  coming  up  " ;  the  third  and 
most  holy,  "  No,  they  are  out."  Another  has  the 
refrain  :  "  My  child,  I  am  afraid."  Some  one  is 
going  away  ;  a  lamp  is  lit ;  at  the  first  door  the 
flame  trembled ;  at  the  second  spoke ;  at  the 
third  went  out.  Here  again  only  our  curiosity  is 
aroused,  and  that  very  imperfectly.  "  The  seven 
daughters  of  Orlamonde "  is  better  : 

The  seven  daughters  of  Orlamonde, 

When  the  fairy  was  dead, 
The  seven  daughters  of  Orlamonde 

Sought  the  doors.  .  .  . 

They  lit  their  seven  lamps, 

Opened  the  towers, 
Opened  four  hundred  rooms, 

Without  finding  daylight.  .  .  . 

Arrive  at  the  sonorous  grottos, 

Then  descend  ; 
And  in  a  closed  door 

Find  a  golden  key.  .  .  . 

See  the  ocean  through  the  chinks, 

Are  afraid  of  dying, 
And  knock  at  the  closed  door. — 

Without  daring  to  open  it.  ... 

The  number  "seven"  and  the  name  "Orlamonde," 


126  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

followed  by  the  word  "  fairy,"  unless  they  evoke 
the  word  "  bunkum,"  lull  us  in  a  way  which  the 
killing  of  the  three  little  girls  cannot  do.  The 
"  seven  lamps,"  the  towers,  the  four  hundred  rooms, 
the  sonorous  grottos,  the  closed  door,  the  golden 
key,  the  ocean  seen  through  the  chinks,  the  not 
daring  to  open  it,  are  all  significant  in  themselves  ; 
but  they  have  little  more  value  in  this  particular 
poem  than  in  an  inventory,  and  especially  as  there 
are  so  many  of  them.  In  one  poem  there  are 
three  sisters  who  want  to  die,  and  go  out  in  search 
of  death,  and,  seeking  it  from  the  forest  in  exchange 
for  their  three  crowns,  they  receive  twelve  kisses, 
which  reveal  the  future  ;  from  the  sea  they  have 
three  hundred  kisses  and  a  revelation  of  the  past ; 
from  the  city  an  indefinite  number  and  a  revelation 
of  the  present.  Here  the  numbers  twelve  and 
three  hundred  are  useless  without  a  key.  There 
are  other  poems  with  lighted  lamps,  lost  keys, 
sunshine  seen  through  chinks. 

Maeterlinck  could  have  made  charades  or  plays 
of  any  or  all  of  them,  but  in  their  present  form 
they  are  like  the  rhymed  outlines  of  plays.  Many 
begin  as  if  they  belonged  to  something  else,  which 
the  reader  is  supposed  to  know,  but  does  not.  One 
of  the  most  musical  and  admired  is  the  second 
in  "  Quinze  Chansons  "  : 

What  shall  I  tell  him 

Should  he  return  ? 
Tell  him  my  life  was  spent 

Waiting  for  him.  .  .  . 


LATER   POEMS:   "  QUINZE   CHANSONS"   127 

Should  he  still  question 

Nor  know  who  I  am  ? 
Speak  to  him  sisterly, 

Lest  he  be  sad.  .  .  . 

And  if  he  should  ask  me 

Where  you  are  gone  ? 
Give  him  my  golden  ring 

And  say  not  a  word.  .  .  . 

And  if  he  asks  why 

I'm  alone  in  the  room  ? 
The  open  door  show  him, 

The  burnt-out  lamp.  .  .  . 

And  if  he  then  asks 

About  the  last  hour? 
Say  that  I  smiled, 

Lest  he  should  weep.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  haunted,  whispering  resignation  of 
the  early  plays,  though  nothing  survives  in  the 
translation  except  an  obtrusively  modest  senti- 
mental tale. 

But  for  the  most  part  these  poems  have  too  hard 
a  finish.  They  are  superficially  precise,  internally 
obscure  or  naught.  The  song  in  "  Pelle'as  et 
Me"lisande,"  which  was  originally  a  fragment  of 
naive  beauty,  was  changed  into  another  of  these. 
It  used  to  say :  "  My  long  locks  fall  down  to  the 
foot  of  the  tower ;  my  locks  hang  ready  for  you 
all  down  the  tower,  all  day  long  and  all  day  long. 
.  .  .  Saint  Daniel  and  Saint  Michael,  Saint  Michael 
and  Saint  Raphael.  I  was  born  on  Sunday,  a 
Sunday  at  noon."  Perhaps  this  seemed  to 
Maeterlinck  too  Elizabethan.  He  substituted 


128  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

for  it  the  poem  which  Miss  Alma  Tadema  thus 
renders  : 

Thirty  years  I've  sought,  my  sisters, 

For  his  hiding-place  ; 
Thirty  years  I've  walked,  my  sisters, 

But  have  found  no  trace.  .  .  . 

Thirty  years  I've  walked,  my  sisters, 

And  my  feet  are  worn ; 
He  was  all  about,  my  sisters, 

Yet  he  was  unborn.  .  .  . 

Sad  the  hour  grows,  my  sisters, 

Bare  my  feet  again  ; 
For  the  evening  dies,  my  sisters 

And  my  soul's  in  pain.  .  .  . 

You  are  now  sixteen,  my  sisters, 

Time  it  is  for  you  ; 
Take  my  staff  away,  my  sisters, 

Go  and  seek  him  too.  .  .  . 

The  eighth  poem  is  of  one  who  had  three 
golden  crowns,  and  gave  one  to  her  parents,  one 
to  her  lover,  and  one  to  her  children.  This  is  not 
the  only  one  recalling  a  folk-song  or  ballad,  such 
as  "  The  Cruel  Brother,"  with  its — 

"  Oh  what  would  ye  leave  to  your  father  dear  ? " 

With  a  heigh-ho  !  and  a  lily  gay. 
"The  milk-white  steed  that  brought  me  here," 

As  the  primrose  spreads  so  sweetly. 

But  in  these  traditional  things  both  the  mysterious 
and  the  unintelligible  gain  by  their  age  and  the 
knowledge  that  something  has  been  worn  away 


LATER  POEMS:   "  QUINZE  CHANSONS"   129 

by    it.      You    cannot    by   a    stroke    of    the   pen 

emulate — 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Everie  night  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet,  and  candle -lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

One  or  two  of  these  "  Chansons "  bring  into  the 
mind  the  ballad  of  "  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray," 
and  they  perish  in  the  comparison.  But  there  are, 
besides  the  song  which  was  left  unsung  by  Shake- 
speare, "  Mariana  in  the  Moated  Grange,"  other 
poems  of  known  authorship  with  which  they  may 
or  even  must  be  compared.  There  are,  e.g., 
Tennyson's  two  poems  on  Mariana  and  his 
"  Lady  of  Shalott " ;  and  Coleridge's  magic  song 
in  "  Remorse  "  : 


Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel  ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep,  long-lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 
In  a  chapel  on  the  shore, 
Shall  the  chaunters  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 
Doleful  masses  chaunt  for  thee, 
Miserere  Domine  ! 

Hark  !  the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea : 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say 
Miserere  Domine! 


130  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

This  is  beyond  anything  in  "  Douze  Chansons." 
But  in  Poe  may  be  found  a  poem  which  is  perhaps 
exactly  equal  to  one  of  Maeterlinck's  in  subject, 
method,  and  failure  in  effect.  I  refer  to  the 
"  Bridal  Ballad,"  beginning  "  The  ring  is  on  my 
hand."  The  abruptness,  the  subdued  elliptical 
style,  the  refrain,  of  these  five  verses,  are  so  like 
that  they  might  be  offered  to  a  reader  who 
knew  no  French  as  an  equivalent  to  one  of  the 
"  Douze  Chansons."  For  that  reason  only  I  will 
quote  it: 

The  ring  is  on  my  hand, 
And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow ; 

Satin  and  jewels  grand 

Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  1  am  happy  now. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell — 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  churchyard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now  ! " 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 

And  thus  the  plighted  vow, 
And,  though  my  faith  be  broken, 


LATER  POEMS:   "  QUINZE  CHANSONS"    131 

And,  though  my  heart  be  broken, 
Here  is  a  ring,  as  token 
That  I  am  happy  now  ! 

Would  God  I  could  awaken  ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how  ! 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken — 
Lest  the  dead,  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 

If  Maeterlinck  has  a  manner  even  more  full  of 
mystery,  it  must  be  conceded  that  he  is  guiltless 
of  the  particular  fatuity  of  "  D'Elormie." 

But  the  poet  who  has  achieved  effects  most  like 
those  attempted  by  Maeterlinck  is  William  Morris. 
His  "  Blue  Closet "  has  the  effect  of  an  early  play 
of  Maeterlinck's,  and  more  than  that  of  any  poem 
in  "  Douze  Chansons  "  : 


Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 
Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 
Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 
From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year ; 
And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go, 
To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below, 
Or  shovel  away  the  heaped-up  snow ; 
And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 
That  we  are  dead. 

"  Two  Red  Roses  across  the  Moon  "  is  another ; 
and  even  this  has  a  sense  of  life  and  locality  which 
is  not  anywhere  in  "  Douze  Chansons."  "  The 
Sailing  of  the  Sword,"  again,  has  a  similar  use  of 


i32  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

the  refrain  and  of  conspicuous  but  indefinitely 
significant  distinctions,  as  in — 

Alicia  wore  a  scarlet  gown 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  Ursula's  was  russet  brown : 
For  the  mist  we  could  not  see 

The  scarlet  roofs  of  the  good  town, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

This  may  be  nothing  more  than  jugglery,  but  at 
least  the  length  of  the  poem  accumulates  sufficient 
colour  and  gesture  to  compose  a  picture.  The 
same  is  true  of  "  Shameful  Death,"  which  is  like 
some  of  Maeterlinck's  poems  in  its  abrupt  and 
unexplained  opening  : 

There  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed,  ,  .  . 
and  still  more  of  "  Near  Avalon  "  : 

A  ship  with  shields  before  the  sun, 

Six  maidens  round  the  mast, 
A  red-gold  crown  on   every  one, 

A  green  gown  on  the  last. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  an  essential  difference 
between  the  methods  and  aims  of  Morris  and 
Maeterlinck  which  partly  invalidates  the  com- 
parison. Morris  depends  upon  life,  though  it 
may  be  dreamed  ;  upon  a  mediaeval  background, 
however  artificial.  His  castle  is  not  merely  an 
ideal  black  castle  stifled  among  poplars  in  a 


LATER  POEMS:   "QUINZE  CHANSONS"   133 

nameless  island  and   a  nameless  age,  but  a  par- 
ticular one : 

Midways  by  a  walled  garden, 

In  the  happy  poplar  land, 

Did  an  ancient  castle  stand, 
With  an  old  knight  for  a  warden. 
Many  scarlet  bricks  there  were 

In  its  walls. 

Maeterlinck  writes  in  colourless  water  and 
depends  upon  nothing  in  time  or  space  save  words. 
His  one  success  is  the  ninth  poem : 

She  came  towards  the  palace 
— The  sun  was  hardly  rising — 
She  came  towards  the  palace, 
The  knights  looked  at  one  another, 
All  the  ladies  were  silent. 

She  stopped  before  the  door 
— The  sun  was  hardly  rising — 
She  stopped  before  the  door, 
They  heard  the  queen  walking, 
And  her  lord  was  questioning  her. 

Where  are  you  going,  where  are   you  going 
— Take  care,  they  can  hardly  see  there — 
Where  are  you  going,  where  are  you  going  ? 
Is  some  one  expecting  you  below  ? 
But  she  made  no  answer. 

She  went  down  towards  the  unknown 
— Take  care,  they  can  hardly  see  there — 
She  went  down  towards  the  unknown, 
The  unknown  embraced  the  queen, 
They  spoke  no  word  to  one  another, 
And  went  away  at  once. 


i34  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Her  lord  was  weeping  on  the  threshold 
— Take  care,  they  can  hardly  see  there — 
Her  lord  was  weeping  on  the  threshold, 
They  heard  the  queen  walking, 
They  heard  the  leaves  falling. 

This,  at  least,  could  not  have  been  pilloried  like 
"  Quand  1'amant  sortit  "  and  "  On  est  venu  dire  " 
in  Tolstoy's  "What  is  Art  ?"  where  they  are  unfairly 
printed  as  one  poem  and  condemned  as  unintelli- 
gible, with  the  fair  comment :  "  Who  went  out  ? 
Who  came  in  ?  Who  is  speaking?  Who  died?" 


IX 

"AGLAVAINE   ET  SELYSETTE  " 

«  A  GLAVAINE  ET  S&LYSETTE,"  the  play 
JL\.  which  appeared  in  the  year  of  "  Le  Tr^sor 
des  Humbles,"  is  Maeterlinck's  first  play  of  char- 
acter. The  scenery  and  the  Arthurian  names  of 
some  characters  are  the  chief  points  in  which  it 
resembles  its  predecessors.  Meleander  and  his 
wife  Selysette  are  expecting  the  arrival  of  Agla- 
vaine,  widow  of  Selysette's  brother,  whom  they 
have  asked  to  come  and  live  with  them.  He  reads 
out  her  letter  saying  that,  though  she  has  only  seen 
him  once,  three  years  ago,  she  feels  as  if  she  had 
known  him  from  infancy.  Meleander  tells  his 
wife  that  Aglavaine  is  beautiful  as  no  other  woman 
is,  and  that  "  nothing  can  live  near  her  that  is  not 
true."  Selysette,  nevertheless,  wants  to  go  away. 
Meleander  and  Aglavaine  have  been  writing  to 
one  another,  but  she  has  not  seen  the  letters ; 
yet  Meleander  thinks  her  happy.  At  sunset 
Aglavaine  arrives  and  kisses  them.  Meligrane, 
Selysette's  grandmother,  awakening  from  a  strange 
dream,  will  not  take  a  kiss  from  her.  Selysette 
promises  to  take  her  to  an  old  tower  on  the  shore, 


136  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

of  which  her  sister  Yssaline  has  found  the  key. 
She  will  love  Selysette  like  a  small  sister.  But 
Selysette,  overhearing  Aglavaine  and  Meleander 
confessing  their  love,  runs  away,  and  Aglavaine 
sends  her  husband  after  her  and  cries.  Alone 
in  the  park  Selysette  reflects  that  her  husband 
pities  her,  and  when  he  kisses  her  dare  not  look 
at  her  except  with  a  seeming  prayer  for  forgive- 
ness. She  sees  Aglavaine  asleep  near  a  well  and 
awakens  her  instead  of  pushing  her  in,  so  that 
Aglavaine  says  she  has  loved  against  her  will. 

She  tells  Selysette  that  she  and  Meleander  love 
her.  Selysette  says  that  she  loves  her,  but  that 
she  is  concealing  her  knowledge  of  things  from  her 
husband  and  keeping  back  her  tears.  Aglavaine 
says  that  she  would  go  away  if  Meleander  no  longer 
loved  his  wife.  She  speaks  of  going  away.  She  must 
not,  and  Selysette  tells  her  she  may  kiss  Meleander 
even  when  his  wife  is  not  there.  Meligrane 
notices  that  Selysette  grows  thin,  and  thinks  that 
either  she  must  die  or  Aglavaine  must  go  away  ; 
and  Aglavaine  says  she  is  right,  and  promises 
never  to  kiss  Meleander  again,  telling  her  moreover 
that  he  loves  Selysette  better  than  Aglavaine. 
Meleander  tries  to  tell  Selysette  that  he  loves 
them  both.  Selysette  now  goes  often  to  her  tower 
to  see  a  great  strange  bird.  Meleander  tells 
Aglavaine  that  when  she  is  there  and  Selysette 
gone,  he  forgets  his  wife.  A  month  passes,  and 
Selysette  is  often  at  her  tower,  not  so  unhappy 
but  more  troubled.  She  is  sorry  to  be  happy,  for 
she  has  a  secret  and  will  never  weep  again.  But 


"AGLAVAINE  ET  SELYSETTE"         137 

Aglavaine  tells  her  she  is  going  away,  and  had 
better  never  have  come  ;  to  which  Selysette  replies 
that  if  Aglavaine  had  never  come  she  herself 
would  never  have  been  either  happy  or  unhappy. 
Selysette  wishes  to  go  away  or  to  die,  for  thus  she 
would  be  yet  more  happy.  Aglavaine  has  seen 
her  up  in  the  tower  dislodging  stones  ;  she  throws 
away  the  new  key,  but  Selysette  finds  the  old  one 
that  was  lost.  And  now  Selysette  is  taking  her 
sister  Yssaline  to  catch  the  green  bird.  She  kisses 
her  grandmother  good-bye ;  she  kisses  Meleander 
so  violently  that  his  lip  bleeds.  After  climbing 
the  tower,  she  returns  to  kiss  her  grandmother 
again,  and  leaves  her  sobbing.  She  goes  up  to  the 
top  of  the  tower  again  with  Yssaline,  and,  talking 
to  her  of  things  the  child  does  not  understand, 
she  leans  out  and  falls.  They  can  learn  from 
Yssaline  only  that  Selysette  had  seemed  less  sad 
than  usual.  "  Love,"  says  Meleander,  "  is  as  cruel 
as  hate."  Aglavaine  asks  the  dying  woman  to 
forgive  her.  All  that  Selysette  will  say  is  that 
she  was  leaning  over  the  wall  and  she  fell.  .  .  . 

Without  the  tower,  this  would  have  been  a 
modern  play  of  refined  middle-class  life.  For  the 
first  time  the  characters  have  a  perfectly  recogniz- 
able foundation  in  common  reality ;  they  are 
changed  by  Maeterlinck's  handling,  indeed,  but 
they  are  not  metamorphosed  and  reduced,  like 
Maleine  or  Alladine,  or  seen  as  a  spectacle  in  a 
dream,  like  the  seven  princesses  or  the  people  of 
"  Inte>ieur."  Aglavaine  is  at  bottom  a  common 
type  :  the  glib,  confident  woman  "  in  sympathy 


138  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

with  advanced  thought,"  but  sicklied  over  with  the 
pale  cast  of  Maeterlinck.  Selysette  is  the  pretty 
little,  womanly,  misunderstood  wife,  who  turns  out 
to  be  more  golden  at  heart  than  Aglavaine,  with 
her  superior  powers  of  speech.  Meleander  could 
be  happy  with  either,  but  he  cannot  keep  them 
separate.  A  little  longer  and  he  might  have  been 
freed  by  a  virtuous  conspiracy  of  the  two.  Sely- 
sette's  decisive  action  solves  the  difficulty,  and 
two  persons  will  be  happy  where  formerly  three 
were  unhappy.  The  characters  explain  themselves 
and  one  another.  We  see  not  only  their  acts  and 
feelings,  but  what  they  think  of  these.  It  is  full  of 
sharp  turns  such  as  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
earliest  plays — turns  that  reveal  the  working  of  the 
spirit  with  exquisite  truth,  as  when  Meleander  is 
reading  aloud  Aglavaine's  beautiful  letter,  and 
Selysette  will  see  that  the  sun  is  setting,  and  that  her 
grandmother  is  asleep  and  is  not  happy.  "Oh  !  I 
want  to  kiss  her,"  she  says,  and  Meleander  goes 
on  reading  the  beautiful  letter.  Selysette's  quick- 
ness of  instinct  is  a  wonderful  piece  of  nature. 
Meleander  is  thinking  of  nothing  whatever  but 
Aglavaine.  Selysette's  spirit  is  feeling  about 
among  a  hundred  things  in  darkness.  She  is 
easily  interrupted  by  Yssaline  coming  in  with  the 
key  to  her  tower,  and  then,  in  the  same  breath  as 
she  tells  Yssaline  her  nurse  is  waiting  she  asks, 
"Is  she  beautiful?"  Of  course  Meleander  does 
not  know  whom  she  is  speaking  of.  Then  again, 
when  he  has  told  her  that  nothing  can  live  near 
Aglavaine  except  what  is  true,  Selysette  repeats 


"AGLAVAINE  ET   SELYSETTE"         139 

his  words  merely.  He  says  :  "  Selysette  ?  "  She  : 
"  Meleander  ?  "  Then  he  goes  on  and  forgets  her 
big  blank  question,  and  proposes,  with  the  optimism 
of  the  blind,  that  when  Aglavaine  comes  they  shall 
be  even  happier  than  they  were  before.  There 
are  times,  indeed,  when  Selysette  speaks  not  only 
the  thoughts  but  the  very  words  of  real  life,  as 
when  she  is  petulant  with  Meleander  and  says  that 
when  she  does  something  that  pleases  him,  it  is 
because  she  has  been  trying  to  imitate  Aglavaine, 
which  is  just  after  the  speech  where  she  expresses 
with  such  tragic  lucidity  and  calm — as  if  she  had 
learnt  it  by  heart — the  result  of  her  deep  brooding 
about  Meleander  and  Aglavaine. 

" '  I  have  often  said  to  myself  that  I  am  only  a 
poor  little  creature  who  could  never  follow  in  your 
footsteps  ;  but  you  have  both  been  so  good  to  me 
that  I  did  not  realize  this  as  soon  as  I  should,  and 
you  have  often  wanted  me  to  go  with  you,  because 
I  was  sad.  And  when  I  was  there,  each  of  you 
seemed  very  light-hearted,  but  there  was  not  the 
same  happiness  in  your  souls,  and  I  was  between 
you  like  a  stranger  shivering  with  cold.  And  yet 
it  was  not  your  fault,  nor  was  it  my  fault  either. 
I  know  full  well  that  I  cannot  understand  ;  but  I 
know  also  that  this  is  a  thing  that  has  to  be  under- 
stood. 

To  which  Meleander  replies  with  self-revelation 
as  complete : 

" '  My  dear,  dear,  good  Selysette,  what  is  it  that 
you  think  you  do  not  understand  ?  .  .  .' " 


i4o  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

and  proceeds  to  tell  her  that  one  soul  is  beautiful 
in  one  way,  and  another  in  a  different  way.  It  is 
all  very  modern  and  perhaps  very  English.  In 
Muther's  "  History  of  Modern  Painting,"  when  he 
turns  from  the  English  to  the  Flemish,  he  says 
that  "  Belgian  painting  differs  from  English  as  a 
fat  Flemish  matron  from  an  ethereal  young  lady." 
But  in  Fernand  Knopff  he  finds  a  Belgian  artist 
who,  "standing in  connection  with  Maeterlinck  and 
the  literary  decadents,  has  introduced  an  intel- 
lectual and  spiritualized  and  delicate  trait  into  the 
fleshly  and  sensuous  Flemish  art."  In  Aglavaine 
and  in  Selysette  we  seem  to  see  those  "  blind  and 
blue-eyed  girls  "  whom  Knopff  depicts  as  "  thought- 
fully looking  before  them,  with  their  heads  resting 
on  the  table  ;  slender  women  sitting  dreamily  at 
the  piano  in  the  dusk,  lost  in  a  world  of  sound," 
or  "  beings  with  aristocratic  movements  and  an 
ethereal  delicacy,  standing  with  a  serious  air  in  the 
melancholy  landscape."  Of  their  Belgian  fleshli- 
ness  they  retain  only  so  much  as  makes  them  ex- 
traordinarily inactive.  None  of  these  women  can 
ever  be  angry  or  make  a  wild  gesture,  unless  it  is 
Queen  Ann  of  Jutland.  When  Selysette  kills  her- 
self she  does  not  leap  from  the  tower,  but  gently 
lets  herself  slide  out  into  the  air — an  act  im- 
possible to  any  but  the  most  inactive  body,  if  not 
to  that. 

Aglavaine  is  perhaps  Maeterlinck's  own  mouth- 
piece, and  she  talks  out  of  a  book  when  she 
deliberately  and  in  so  many  words  proposes  that 
her  lover's  wife  should  strive  towards  "  the  love 


"AGLAVAINE  ET  SELYSETTE"         141 

that  disdains  the  pettiness  of  love."  Meleander 
replies  to  her  with  words  more  closely  connected 
with  experience,  but  still  too  much  like  an  extract 
from  one  of  Maeterlinck's  essays.  He  says  that 
it  is  futile  and  exhausting  to  struggle  to  make 
their  love  like  that  of  brother  and  sister,  and  says 
that  it  is  by  "  the  kiss "  that  all  is  transformed, 
that  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  loves  see  more 
clearly  than  the  sister's.  When  Selysette  asks  what 
would  happen  if  Meleander  loved  Aglavaine  more 
than  his  wife,  she  replies  that  he  will  love  the 
same  thing  in  both  of  them,  and  that  he  could  not 
love  one  without  the  other.  In  fact,  when  first 
she  came  among  them  she  was  "  wiser  than  one 
had  need  to  be,"  wiser,  that  is  to  say,  with  a  too 
purely  reasonable  and  expressible  wisdom.  It  is 
significant  that  she  altered  her  mind  and  came 
to  see  something  in  foolish  human  goodness  which 
can  do  without  such  wisdom,  and  to  believe  that 
in  the  less  conscious  Selysette  there  was  something 
beyond  herself;  she  sees  that  life  will  not  con- 
form to  her  plans.  Under  Selysette's  undesigned 
tutelage  she  learns  some  of  the  "  feeble,  tortuous 
wisdom  "  of  ordinary  woman,  and  is  going  to  tell 
her  that  she  no  longer  loves  Meleander  or  is 
loved  by  him,  and  will  therefore  leave  them,  just 
as  Astolaine,  to  save  Palomides,  tells  her  father 
that  she  loves  him  no  more.  Meeting  Selysette — 
"  little  Selysette " — she  is  powerless  and  almost 
stupid  beside  tue  penetrating  natural  creature. 
In  the  end  she  confesses  herself  blinder  than  any 
wretched  girl.  Nor  does  she  ever  reach  a  point 


142  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

equal  to  that  where  Selysette  talks  to  Yssaline 
before  she  falls  from  the  tower,  for  she  is  as 
Philosophy  compared  with  Life.  Yssaline  does 
not  understand  her  sister,  who  teaches  the  child 
to  tell  the  others  that  she  was  not  sad  before  the 
end.  She  tells  her  that  she  cannot  understand 
her  words  now,  but  that  a  day  will  come  when  she 
can,  and  then  she  will  never  forget  this  scene,  and 
will  weep  over  it ;  and  therefore  she  asks  forgive- 
ness ;  but  the  child  turns  to  see  the  flocks  of  birds 
coming  back  to  the  tower.  This  is  the  Selysette 
who  taught  her  that  it  would  be  better  to  be  in 
error  all  a  lifetime  than  make  one  weep  who  is 
in  error. 

This  last  dialogue  between  Selysette  and 
Yssaline  is  a  perfect  specimen  of  Maeterlinck's 
tragic  irony : 

Yssaline.  On  ne  voit  presque  plus  le  soleil,  petite 
sceur.  .  .  . 

Selysette.  Attends,  attends  encore,  ma  petite 
Yssaline,  car  autre  chose  approche  a  mesure  qu'il 
s'e"loigne,  et  j'y  vois  bien  plus  clair  a  mesure  qu'elle 
s'approche  .  .  .  Je  ne  sais  plus  si  j'ai  bien  fait  de  te 
mener  sur  cette  tour ;  et  cependant,  il  fallait  bien 
que  quelqu'un  vint  ici,  car  il  en  est  qui  voudront 
tout  savoir,  et  qui  seront  heureux  pourvu  qu'ils  ne 
sachent  pas.  ...  A  present,  petite  soeur,  tout  ce 
que  je  te  dis,  tu  ne  le  saisis  pas.  .  .  .  Oui,  mais  un 
jour  viendra  ou  tu  saisiras  tout,  et  oil  tu  verras 
tout  ce  que  tu  ne  vois  pas  pendant  que  tu  le 
vois.  .  .  .  Alors  tu  seras  triste  et  tu  ne  pourras 
oublier  ce  que  tes  pauvres  yeux  apercevront  tantot 
,  .  .  Et  cependant  ne  faut-il  pas  que  tu  voies  sans 


"AGLAVAINE  ET  S^LYSETTE"         143 

comprendre,  afin  que  d'autres  aussi  ne  comprennent 
pas  ?  .  .  .  Mais  tu  ne  pourras  pas  t'empe'cher  de 
pleurer  lorsque  tu  seras  grande,  et  cela  pesera 
peut-etre  sur  ta  vie.  .  .  .  Et  c'est  pourquoi,  je 
te  demande  de  ma  pardonner  aujourd'hui  sans 
comprendre,  ce  que  tu  souffriras  plus  tard  en 
comprenant  trop  bien.  .  .:;.^ 

Yss    Les  troupeaux  rentrent,  petite  soeur.  .  .  . 

SJl.  Et  demain  les  troupeaux  rentreront  aussi, 
Yssaline. 

Yss.   Oui,  petite  sceur.  .  .  . 

Sel.   Et  demain  les  oiseaux  chanteront  aussi.  .  .  . 

Yss.  Oui,  petite  soeur.  .  .  . 

Stl.  Et  demain  les  fleurs  fleuriront  aussi.  .  .  . 

Yss.   Oui,  oui,  petite  sceur.  .  .  . 

S41.  Pourquoi  faut-il  que  ce  soit  la  plus 
jeune.  .  .  . 

Yss.  II  n'y  a  plus  qu'une  petite  ligne  rouge, 
petite  sceur.  .  .  . 

Stt.  Tu  as  raison ;  il  est  temps.  .  .  .  C'est  toi- 
m£me  qui  m'y  pousses ;  et  les  e"toiles  aussi 
s'impatientent  d6j£.  .  .  .  Adieu,  mon  Yssaline,  je 
suis  tres,  tres  heureuse. 

Yss.  Moi  aussi,  petite  sceur,  hate-toi,  les  ^toiles 
vont  venir.  .  .  . 

Stf.  Sois  sans  crainte,  Yssaline,  elles  ne  me 
verront  plus.  .  .  .  Leve-toi,  assieds-toi  dans  ce 
coin,  et  laisse-moi  serrer  les  bouts  de  mon  echarpe 
autour  de  ta  poitrine,  car  le  vent  est  bien  froid.  .  .  . 

Maeterlinck  himself,  apart  from  his  characteristic 
handling,  is  prominent  in  the  book.  He  makes 
Aglavaine's  letter  say  what  Arkel  said  in  "  Pell6as 
et  MeUisande,"  but  with  a  difference  :  'nat  they 
can  make  their  lives  marvellous  so  tr  it  even  if 
sorrow  comes  to  them  it  will  first  have  become 


144  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

beautiful  ;  and  he  makes  her  say  that  she  is  "  glad 
to  have  suffered,"  and  wait  for  the  silence  to  speak, 
and  tell  her  lover  that  their  souls  speak  before  the 
words  are  uttered,  and  reply  to  Selysette — when  she 
has  asked  if  Mekander  said  that  his  love  for  her 
was  deeper  than  he  had  known — that  if  he  had 
said  so  she  would  not  have  been  sure  that  it  was 
true.  He  puts  into  her  mouth  the  speech  about 
that  deeper  truth  which  is  out  of  reach  of  words, 
however  beautiful.  But  the  obsession  of  God  or 
Fate  is  absent  from  the  play.  Aglavaine,  it  is 
true,  speaks  of  the  "  simplicity  of  things  "  against 
which  it  is  vain  to  strive,  but  this  is  something 
very  different  from  the  hidden  queen  of  "  La  Mort 
de  Tintagiles,"  though  it  is  terrible.  Not  until  the 
last  moment  is  it  certain  that  Selysette  will  decide 
to  die ;  we  feel  at  least  that  she  had  a  purpose 
and  felt  a  choice,  though  up  in  the  tower  she 
asked  why  it  was  that  the  younger  of  the  two 
"had"  to  go.  She  is  always  "little"  Selysette, 
but  perhaps  "  little  "  has  become  with  Maeterlinck 
one  of  those  terrible  mots  propres  which  cannot 
be  avoided,  expressing  him  in  spite  of  himself: 
Selysette  herself  half  laughs  at  it. 

The  castle  is  not  terrible  in  this  play ;  it  is  old, 
but  not  dark,  and  the  old  grandmother  Meligrane 
is  not  grim,  in  spite  of  her  inexorable  wisdom  and 
her  refusal  to  kiss  Aglavaine.  The  sun  shines  here, 
and  not  until  it  set  could  Selysette  throw  herself 
down.  Nor  is  the  tower,  with  a  long  corridor 
according  to  custom,  wholly  sinister,  even  though 
Meleander  would  like  the  key  to  be  lost  for  ever. 


"AGLAVAINE  ET  SELYSETTE"         145 

He  was  giddy  during  his  only  ascent.     Selysette 
and  Yssaline  alone  have  climbed  it  often.    It  is  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  by  the  sea,  and  was  once  a 
lighthouse.     Now  it  is  ruined  and  haunted  by  sea- 
birds  and  doves,  who  recognize  Selysette  and  will 
not  be  driven  away.    Nevertheless,  this  tower  is  not 
a  natural  part  of  the  dwelling-house  of  this  pale 
wife.     Ibsen   would    have   put   her   in   a    modern 
house — a  doll's  house.     Selysette  is  a  Nora  who 
would   certainly  not  have  killed   herself  had  she 
lived  at  Bedford  Park  or  Hampstead,  instead  of  a 
castle  by  the  sea  with  a  gull-haunted  tower.     A 
romantic  suicide  instead  of  "  the  dull  sound  of  a 
door  shutting  in  the  lock  "  was  the  price  to  be  paid 
for  this  last  indulgence  of  his  taste  for  castles  and 
towers.     It  was  a  princely  expenditure.     Maeter- 
linck presents  a  tower  to  Selysette  where  another 
dramatist  would  either  have  made  her  build  one, 
as  Solness  did  at  Lysanger,  or  have  contented  her 
with  a  castle  in  Spain.    But  although  the  characters 
are  modern  the  play  is  no  more  a  modern  play 
than  it  is  an  Arthurian  romance.    Modernity  is  only 
so  much  colour  for  the  painter  ;  he  dips  his  brush 
in  our  pale  blood  to  help  make  a  picture  of  an  old 
castle ;  it  is  colour  just  as  the  names — Aglavaine, 
Meligrane — are  colour  ;  nor  is  the  philosophy  in  it 
any  more  than  colour.     What  survives  in  the  mind 
from  this  play  is  not  the  solution  of  a  problem  of 
one  man  and  two  women  by  suicide,  nor  yet  an 
Arthurian  family  going  to  and  fro  in  a  castle.     It 
is  the  tower  that  survives — a  high,  crumbling  tower 
amid  wings  that  sway  and  circle,  and  over  the  top- 
10 


146  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

most  edge,  where  it  is  broken,  a  beautiful  girl, 
pale  and  very  quiet,  leaning  out  in  a  dream  to 
reach  a  strange  pale-green  bird  that  has  come 
newly  to  the  tower.  On  the  top  of  the  tower,  in 
solitude,  away  from  the  castle  and  high  above  it, 
looking  out  towards  the  sea,  she  seeks  a  solution 
which  she  could  not  find  down  in  the  world.  She 
returns  out  of  this  backwater  into  the  main 
stream  of  eternity  in  order  to  be  happier  than 
before,  with  more  than  a  half-belief  that  Meleander 
and  Aglavaine  will  remain  in  it  for  as  long  as 
possible. 

Mr.  J.  W.  Mackail  tells  us  of  some  one  who 
read  "Aglavaine  et  Selysette  "  and  declared  him- 
self "sick  of  that  tower."  But  it  is  a  mistake  to 
confuse  it  with  the  tower  of"  La  Princesse  Maleine," 
"  Alladine  et  Palomides,"  etc.  Not  only  has  it  no 
dungeons  and  Plutonian  waters,  but  it  is  not  in 
any  sense  a  tower  of  dream.  It  is  an  extraordinary 
tower  sprung  up  during  the  night  at  the  edge  of 
some  suburb  or  watering-place.  It  should  thus 
be  painted,  casting  its  shadow  upon  "  Lyndhurst  " 
and  "  Bella  Vista."  Nor  is  the  invention  to  be 
blamed.  The  music  of  the  place  is  doubled  by 
it,  and  it  has  perhaps  been  among  the  influences 
that  produced  the  first  verse  of  the  lyric  chorus 
sung  upon  the  entrance  of  Deirdre  in  Mr.  W.  B. 
Yeats's  choice  play  of  "  Deirdre  "  : 

"  Why  is  it  ? "  Queen  Edane  said, 
"  If  I  do  but  climb  the  stair 
To  the  tower  overhead, 
When  the  winds  are  calling  there, 


"AGLAVAINE  ET  SELYSETTE"         147 

Or  the  gannets  calling  out 
In  waste  places  of  the  sky, 
There's  so  much  to  think  about 
That  I  cry— that  I  cry?" 

Take  away  the  tower  from  "  Aglavaine  et  S£ly- 
sette,"  and  we  might  have  had  an  Ibsenitish  play 
of  inferior  reality.  As  it  is,  we  have  something  as 
perfect  and  as  rare  as  anything  of  Ibsen's. 


X 

FIRST   ESSAYS  :    "  LE   TRESOR   DES   HUMBLES  "  ; 
"LA  SAGESSE   ET  LA  DESTINEE " 

LE  TRESOR  DES  HUMBLES,"  the  first 
in  a  long  series  of  books  of  essays,  marks 
no  obvious  departure  from  the  period  of  the  early 
plays  which  it  closes.  Arke'l,  the  old  man  in 
"  InteVieur,"  and  Aglavaine  had  already  talked  in 
the  language  of  "  Le  Tremor  des  Humbles."  The 
essays  on  Ruysbroeck,  Emerson,  and  Novalis  dis- 
closed the  nature  of  Maeterlinck's  reading  and 
thinking.  That  on  Emerson  showed  us,  like  the 
plays,  how  he  loved  the  idea  of  silence  so  much 
that  the  words  of  the  people  in  his  plays  often 
seem  no  more  than  swallows  flying  about  a  deep 
and  still  lake,  whose  surface  they  ruffle  seldom  and 
but  for  a  moment.  "  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles  " 
opens  with  a  quotation  from  Carlyle  upon  silence 
and  secrecy,  saying  that  "  silence  is  the  element  in 
which  great  things  fashion  themselves  together," 
and  that  "  speech  is  too  often  .  .  .  the  act  of  quite 
stifling  and  suspending  thought,  so  that  there  is 
none  to  conceal.  .  .  .  Speech  is  of  Time,  silence  is 
of  Eternity."  As  in  the  Introduction  to  the  trans- 

148 


M     AND   MADAME  MAETERLINCK 


ISO  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

child  emerges  into  significance,  and  with  the  child 
the  woman  ;  and  women,  he  says,  are  more  naturally 
in  harmony  with  the  mysteries  of  life  ;  "  they  are 
nearer  to  God  "  ;  and  he  speaks  of  "  those  profound 
moments  "  when  a  man's  head  lies  on  the  breast  of 
a  woman — profound  moments  when,  perhaps,  the 
hero  learns  "  to  know  the  strength  and  steadfast- 
ness of  his  star."  In  intellect  they  may  be  inferior, 
but  in  the  higher  regions  all  are  equal.  Of  such  a 
world  as  this  which  is  seen  or  foreseen  by  Maeter- 
linck, women  like  Aglavaine  and  Maleine  are  fit 
inhabitants,  and  in  it  Maleine  would  have  no  need 
to  die  by  the  cord  nor  Aglavaine  to  cause  the  death 
of  Selysette.  Women  he  calls  the  "  veiled  sisters  " 
of  the  great  unseen  things,  and  the  phrase  is  only 
one  of  many  which  belong  to  the  world  of  the 
plays.  These  silent,  divining  women,  looking  so 
insignificant,  are  like  the  characters  of  those  plays. 
Still  more  like  them  are  those  silent  and  mysterious 
beings  who  are  destined  to  an  early  death  and  are 
dimly  aware  of  it,  timid  yet  grave  and  steadfast. 
Their  resignation  seems  beautiful  to  him,  and  in 
"  The  Star "  he  speaks  of  "  the  meek,  resigned 
smile  "  of  the  soul  as  being  its  deepest  expression. 
In  "  The  Invisible  Goodness "  he  compares  men 
with  sleep-walkers  or  the  blind,  and  recalls  "  Les 
Aveugles"  when  he  says  that  we  never  see  or 
touch  each  other  in  this  life.  The  predestined  are 
those  on  whom  death  has  set  a  visible  doom,  such 
as  Ar.kel  saw  on  Melisande.  But  they  are  not 
essentially  exceptional  in  Maeterlinck's  opinion,  for 
death  he  calls  the  guide  and  the  goal  of  life. 


FIRST   ESSAYS  151 

Everywhere  is  to  be  seen  his  belief,  and  a  tender 
fervour  in  advocating  it,  that  the  mere  fact  of 
living  is  wonderful,  so  wonderful  that  our  dis- 
tinctions between  the  important  and  the  un- 
important fade  away.  Only  external  things  make 
these  distinctions,  and  of  external  things  he  takes 
no  account.  What  lies  beneath  is  what  is  valuable 
and  significant,  and  at  present  we  know  little  or 
nothing  of  this,  except  that  it  is  unfathomable  in 
all  men.  Hence  at  present  an  equality  of  mystery 
and  greatness  in  all.  What  is  known  is  uninterest- 
ing, and  he  says,  with  Whitman  : 

What  is  known  I  strip  away, 

I  launch  all  men  and  women  forward  with  me  into  the 
unknown. 

Maeterlinck  also  says  "  All."  Arkel  called 
Melisande  a  poor  little  mysterious  being,  "  like 
everybody  else,"  and  Maeterlinck  allows  no  differ- 
ences of  good  and  bad,  great  and  small,  young  and 
old.  The  prostitute  and  the  murderer  may  have 
white,  lovely  souls,  while  the  philosopher  and  the 
martyr  may  spread  gloom  wherever  they  go.  In 
Ford's  play  of  "  Tis  Pity  She's  a  Whore,"  which 
Maeterlinck  translated,  Giovanni  says  to  his  in- 
cestuous sister  Annabella  before  he  stabs  her  : 

Since  we  must  part, 

Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 

This   is   the  note   of  Maeterlinck,    but   Giovanni 


IS*  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

confidently  expects,  not  an  inner  and  heavenly 
sanction  only,  but  that  of  intelligent  posterity: 

If  ever  after  times  should  hear 
Of  our  fast-knit  affections,  though  perhaps 
The  laws  of  conscience  and  of  civil  use 
May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour 
Which  would  in  other  incests  be  abhorred. 

What  lover  says  to  lover  in  the  ecstasy  of  tragedy 
Maeterlinck  says  quietly  to  all  the  world.  But  for 
his  soft  and  shadowy  voice,  his  words  are  those  of 
Walt  Whitman  in  the  "  Salut  au  Monde  "  : 

Each  of  us  inevitable, 

Each  of  us   limitless— each  of  us  with  his  or  her  right 

upon  the  earth, 

Each  of  us  allow'd  the  eternal  purports  of  the  earth, 
Each  of  us  here  as  divinely  as  any  is  here. 

Only  Maeterlinck  has  scarcely  an  equivalent  for 
Whitman's  praise  of  the  body,  when  he  says 
that  the  skin,  the  hair,  the  bones,  the  marrow  .  .  . 
"  are  not  the  parts  and  poems  of  the  body  only, 
but  of  the  soul,  O  I  say  now  these  are  the  soul." 
To  Whitman  all  that  is,  all  visible  things,  are  so 
glorious  and  strange  that  though  he  would  have 
life  better,  yet  he  cannot  think  of  making  it  so 
except  through  love  of  what  it  already  is.  Whit- 
man sees  that  men  are  divine,  and  Maeterlinck  has 
intimations  that  they  are  :  at  the  bottom  of  all 
our  acts,  he  says  in  his  Introduction  to  Camille 
Mauclair's  "Jules  Laforgue"  (1896),  there  is  "a 
kind  of  childish  and  divine  smile  .  .  .  which  might 


FIRST   ESSAYS  153 

be  named  the  soul's  smile."  He  is  shy  and  gentle 
with  all  his  asseveration,  having  neither  bulk  nor 
weight,  but  speaking  like  a  disembodied  spirit. 
Just  as  his  plays  show  "  the  reaction  of  the 
imagination  against "  what  Mr.  Symons  unjustly 
calls  "  the  wholly  prose  theatre  of  Ibsen,  into  which 
life  comes  nakedly,  cruelly,  subtly,  but  without 
distinction,  without  poetry,"  so  in  these  essays  we 
meet  "  children  and  spirits  "  rather  than  the  men 
and  women  of  life  or  of  Ibsen's  plays.  There  are 
places  where  he  speaks  so  airily — like  the  legendary 
bird  of  Paradise  that  had  no  feet,  and  could  never 
alight  on  earth  or  tree — that  he  might  seem  to  be 
only  building  up  in  fancy  from  some  such  words  as 
those  of  Novalis :  "  Blame  nothing  human,  for  all 
is  good,  though  all  may  not  be  good  in  every 
place,  or  at  all  times,  or  for  all  men."  Did  he  ever, 
in  writing  this  book,  remember  some  other  words 
which  he  had  translated  a  few  years  before,  those 
of  Ruysbroeck's  seventy -sixth  chapter?  The 
mystic  is  writing  of  those  egoists  who  attain  a 
natural  idle  calm  which  they  mistake  for  the 
heavenly  calm  of  saints.  They  think  themselves 
contemplative,  and,  thanks  to  their  natural  calm, 
believe  themselves  free  and  in  direct  union  with 
God,  and  therefore  raised  above  the  practice  of  the 
Church  and  the  commandments  of  God,  the  law, 
and  virtuous  works.  Therefore,  too,  they  can  do 
all  that  their  bodily  natures  desire,  for  they  have 
reached  innocence,  and  there  is  no  law  for  them  ; 
and  if  nature  is  tempted  to  some  pleasure  and  a 
refusal  might  darken  or  disturb  the  calm  of  the 


iS4  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

spirit,  they  satisfy  nature  according  to  the  desire, 
lest  the  calm  of  the  spirit  should  be  disturbed. 

Probably  Maeterlinck  did  not  remember  these 
words,  or  his  book  might  have  been  hesitating  as 
well  as  shy.  But  hesitating  it  never  is.  For  his 
foundations  are  built  upon  truths  within  the 
experience  of  all,  and  he  builds  all  the  more 
audaciously  because  most  men  ignore  these  founda- 
tions altogether.  Every  one  has  come  to  the 
edge  of  a  mystery,  as  of  a  deep  sea  for  which  no 
experience  or  thinking  has  prepared  him  ;  every 
one  has  used  powers  of  intuition  and  uncon- 
scious hidden  activity  for  which  he  has  no  name. 
We  have  assurances  and  consolations  inexplicable, 
the  very  reason  for  living  is  hidden  from  many. 
Very  widely  distributed  is  the  kindliness  felt  for 
a  scoundrel  who  is  generous,  the  contempt  for  the 
man  who  is  perfect  according  to  some  obvious  rule 
or  law.  Tolerance  and  a  sense  of  mystery  are  the 
foundations  of  "  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles."  It 
brings  those  who  are  open  to  slender  and  vague 
voices  out  of  the  darkness  some  of  the  new 
assurances  and  consolations  that  are  needed,  or 
confirms  the  old.  It  plays  the  same  part  as 
Browning's  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  "  in  laying  stress 
upon — 

All  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

AH  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed   not  as   his  work,  yet   swelled  the  man's 
amount : 


FIRST   ESSAYS  155 

Though  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped, 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All  men  ignored  in  me, 

This    I    was   worth   to   God,    whose    wheel    the   pitcher 
shaped. 

It  makes  for  a  reconsideration  of  old  standards,  for 
charity,  for  subtle  distinctions,  modifications,  reser- 
vations, for  an  extending  or  a  breaking  down  of 
boundaries,  for  a  broadening  of  the  horizon  of 
common  life.  It  can  reveal  the  value  of  judgments 
which  have  escaped  explanation  and  even  notice 
because  they  were  not  purely  or  even  mainly 
rational,  and  were  yet  right.  It  can  increase 
reverence  where  it  does  not  touch  understanding. 
It  undermines  our  more  massive  and  pompous 
follies.  It  teaches  not  by  information  or  by  law, 
but  by  making  men  more  profoundly  aware  of 
themselves  and  of  the  world.  Tc\  read  it  is  like  an 
experience  of  the  uncomfortable  silence  that 
descends  by  chance  upon  a  circle  of  talkers.  Most 
are  glad  when  the  silence  breaks  up  and  talk 
returns ;  but  the  silence  is  not  to  be  forgotten.  The 
book  points  to  mysteries  under  the  surface  of  life 
which  are  as  impressive  as  the  corridors,  vaults, 
and  dark  waters  which  are  their  symbols  in  the 
plays. 

But  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destinee  "  must  be  con- 
sidered along  with  "  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles  "  if  a 
fair  view  is  to  be  had  of  Maeterlinck's  early  writing 
upon  life  and  conduct.  It  is  a  book  written  without 


156  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

rigorous  method,  "  composed,"  as  he  tells  us  himself, 
"of  oft-interrupted  thoughts,  that  entwine  them- 
selves with  more  or  less  system  around  two  or  three 
subjects."  It  is  not  meant  to  convince  or  prove, 
and  Maeterlinck  takes  the  opportunity  to  say  that 
books  are  less  important  than  it  has  been  claimed, 
telling  us  of  a  friend  who  said  that  it  was  well 
to  love  and  admire  the  word  "  Equanimity,"  which 
Antoninus  Pius,  when  on  his  death-bed,  gave 
as  watchword  to  the  captain  of  the  guard,  but 
better  to  spend  the  time  given  us  by  fortune  to 
admire  it  "  in  favour  of  the  first  little  useful,  living 
deed  "  offered  by  the  same  fortune.  And  later  in 
the  book  he  says  that  truest  morality  bids  us  to 
cling  to  daily  duties  and  acts  of  brotherly  kindness. 
The  book  was  published  in  1898,  two  years  after 
"  Le  Tr^sor,"  and  already  Maeterlinck  is  farther  away 
from  the  world  of  his  early  plays.  He  sees  around 
him  not  only  men  who  are  oppressed  by  men  and 
events,  but  others  with  "  some  kind  of  inner  force, 
which  has  its  will  not  only  with  men,  but  even  with 
the  events  that  surround  them."  That  is  to  say, 
Jesus  Christ  and  Marcus  Aurelius  are  not  open  to 
misfortunes  of  the  same  complexion  as  Hamlet  and 
CEdipus.  There  is,  he  says  now,  "  no  inner  fatality, 
and  much  that  now  seems  fatal  is  avoidable  and  is 
even  human  and  natural."  As  to  resignation,  he 
now  sees  that  it  may  come  to  the  pettiest ;  what  is 
good  is  "the  thoughts  and  the  feelings  in  whose 
name  we  embrace  resignation."  Wisdom,  he  says, 
is  deeper  than  our  consciousness,  and  it  contains  love 
which  is  not  in  reason  ;  and  again,  that  wisdom  lies 


FIRST  ESSAYS  137 

above  all  in  "  those  ideas  that  are  not  yet  clear." 
The  sage  suffers,  but  his  wisdom  helps  him  to  con- 
vert the  suffering  and  make  the  manner  of  his 
accepting  it  harmless.  He  compares  the  "  magni- 
ficent sorrow  "  of  a  great  man  with  the  puny  joy  of 
another  ;  this  also  is  part  of  the  wisdom  which  is 
armed  against  destiny.  And  now  he  asks  when  men 
will  give  the  place  of  importance  to  life  instead  of 
to  death,  and  count  the  joy  as  well  as  the  sorrow  in 
computing  a  man's  destiny.  Happiness,  he  says, 
can  be  taught  and  learnt.  He  calls  renunciation  a 
virtue  that  is  often  a  parasite,  and  it  does  not  pro- 
duce wisdom  ;  in  fact,  wisdom  grows  faster  in  happi- 
ness than  in  misfortune,  while  the  horizon  of  sorrow 
differs  little  from  that  of  happiness  when  surveyed 
from  the  height  of  a  lofty  thought.  Sacrifice,  he 
says,  should  not  be  the  means,  but  the  sign  of  en- 
noblement ;  for  self-sacrifice  is  easier  than  the  fulfil- 
ment of  our  spiritual  destiny.  Not  only  sacrifices, 
but  other  acts,  are  higher  when  done  consciously 
than  when  instinctive.  Like  Richard  Jefferies 
and  many  others  he  says  that  the  knowledge  that 
he  is  alone  is  a  source  of  strength  to  man,  and 
he  asks,  "  Where  shall  the  virtue  of  man  find  more 
everlasting  foundation  than  in  the  seeming  injustice 
of  God  ?  "  The  vastness  of  nature  is  still  something 
of  an  obsession  to  him.  We  should  act  as  if  for 
eternity,  and  yet  know  that  whatever  we  do  is  in- 
significant. Something  in  us  makes  us  prefer  tears 
in  an  infinite  world  to  perpetual  happiness  in  a  petty 
one.  Justice  is  man's  idea,  and  our  instinct  tells  us 
that  "  he  who  is  morally  right  must  be  happier  than 


158  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

he  who  is  wrong."  There  is  no  waste  of  goodness. 
Even  an  unwise  act  may  help  a  wise  man  ;  and  again 
he  insists  that  a  man's  reaches  and  attempts  are 
more  important  than  his  achievements.  He  has  no 
doubt  of  the  essential  happiness  of  Emily  Bronte, 
because  her  life  was  intense.  Yet  he  does  not 
applaud  mere  loftiness  of  desire  or  dream  which  is 
characteristic  of  the  weak  and  absorbs  them  entirely. 
A  healthy  vice  is  better  than  a  morbid  virtue. 
Whereas  he  seemed  in  "  Le  Tre"sor  "  to  encourage 
an  indolent  and  amiable  confusion  of  mind  he  now 
asks  scornfully  whether  we  think  that  anything  will 
come  in  answer  to  mere  vague  desires,  and  his  open- 
ing words  allow  us  to  see  that  he  is  conscious  of 
the  intangibility  of  the  happiness,  justice,  and  love 
of  which  he  speaks,  compared  with  the  reality 
of  the  sorrow  and  injustice  of  life.  The  most 
dangerous  thought  is  that  which  mistrusts  reality,  he 
writes — perhaps  in  correction  of  conclusions  drawn 
from  "  Le  Tr£sor  des  Humbles."  To  the  same 
cause  perhaps  may  be  attributed  the  statement  that 
a  man's  thought  will  not  change  his  place  in  the 
world,  but  his  actions  will,  thought  being  "  solitary, 
wandering,  fugitive,"  while  each  deed  is  effected 
by  ideas  and  desires  with  a  "  foothold  in  reality." 
And  again  he  contrasts  thought  which  may  be 
deceptive  with  the  sincerity  of  human  feeling. 

Nevertheless,  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destine'e,"  could 
be  joined  with  its  predecessor  under  the  title  of 
"  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles."  Both  together  offer  a 
store  of  encouragement  and  consolation  for  humble 
hearts.  In  the  new  book  the  same  tolerance  pre- 


FIRST  ESSAYS  159 

vails.  The  deeper  down  we  go  into  life,  the  more 
inevitable  is  it  that  the  eye  must  watch  and  approve 
and  love  "  every  soul  in  existence,"  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  it  has  "the  mysterious  gift  of 
existence,"  and  that  it  must  be  clear  that  falsehood 
and  weakness  and  vice  are  superficial,  and  wicked- 
ness is  only  "goodness  bereft  of  its  guide,"  and 
treachery  is  loyalty  astray,  and  hatred  is  love  digging 
its  own  grave.  Balzac,  he  points  out,  can  make 
the  emotion  of  a  simple  heart  stir  us  as  much  as 
the  passion  of  a  king.  And  when,  almost  in  the 
spirit  of  his  early  plays,  he  puts  man  beside  "  the 
vastness  of  nature  "  and  sees  his  littleness,  he  comes 
to  think  that  the  extraordinary  things  in  the  life  of 
saints,  famous  lovers,  or  generals,  are  illusions  in 
comparison  with  the  wisdom  of  an  unambitious, 
healthy,  honest  man  who  does  not  desire  to  be 
anything  but  a  man.  He  adds  that  everything 
beautiful,  noble,  or  profound  which  is  possible  to 
human  life  may  be  found  in  "  the  simplest,  most 
ordinary  life." 

Theoretical  toleration  and  a  large  but  indefinite 
sense  of  mystery  are  in  the  air.  The  tyranny  of 
the  too  rigid  and  pretentious  standards  of  con- 
ventional Christianity  is  being  broken  down.  It 
has  not  been  replaced,  and,  in  the  meantime,  there 
is  toleration — and  myriads  of  intolerances.  The 
predominance  of  the  middle  class  has  helped  also 
to  produce  a  widespread  craving  for  anything  that 
will  vividly  contrast  with  the  life  of  this  class. 
Peasants,  princes,  ancient  heroes,  seamen,  children, 
saints,  savages,  vagabonds,  criminals,  animals, 


160  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

flowers,  nature  generally,  have  been  visited  for 
relief  by  artists  and  spectators  of  this  class.  Even 
the  maniac  has  found  his  praiser — not  merely  his 
pitiful  chronicler,  like  Herrick,  or  Cowper,  or 
Wordsworth.  Ernest  Dowson  has  a  poem  "  To 
One  in  Bedlam,"  and  sees  in  his  melancholy  some- 
thing "  germane  to  the  stars  "  and  enviable.  "  O 
lamentable  brother !  "  he  exclaims  : 

O  lamentable  brother  !  if  those  pity  thee, 

Am  I  not  fain  of  all  thy  fine  eyes  promise  me ; 

Half  a  fool's  kingdom,  far  from  men  who  sow  and  reap 

All  their  days,  vanity?    Better  than  mortal  flowers 

Thy  moon-kissed  roses  seem :  better  than  love  or  sleep, 

The  star-crowned  solitude  of  thine  oblivious  hours  ! 

Here  is  the  contrast  between  the  freedom  of  mad- 
ness and  the  entrammelled  life  of  those  who  sow 
and  reap  vanity.  "Anywhere  out  of  the  world," 
as  Baudelaire  cries,  and,  following  modestly  be- 
hind, a  multitude  is  willing  to  see  in  dreaming,  in 
childhood,  in  what  is  untouched  by  routine,  law, 
and  custom  an  escape  from  what  is  clear,  limited, 
and  fixed.  Another  modern  poet,  Francis  Thomp- 
son, writes  of  a  maid  in  love,  almost  in  the  words 
of  Maeterlinck,  as : 

Feeling  the  infinite  must  be 

Best  said  by  triviality.  .  .  . 

With  daintiest  babble  shows  her  sense 

That  full  speech  were  full  impotence  ; 

And  while  she  feels  the  heavens  lie  bare — 

She  only  talks  about  her  hair. 

It  is  this  common  truth  of  experience  that  Maeter- 


FIRST   ESSAYS  161 

linck  wishes  to  draw  from  its  retreat  in  our  un- 
consciousness and  make  it  serve  not  only  as  a 
memorial  but  as  a  prophecy,  not  only  as  an  isolated 
fact  but  as  a  rule.  Mostly  town-dwellers,  living 
sheltered  lives  and  pursuing  occupations  that  do 
not  satisfy  them,  the  people  whom  he  addresses 
have  much  leisure  and  much  solitude,  and  the 
characteristic  occupation  of  the  less  active  is  read- 
ing. If  they  cannot  have  real  peasants,  princes, 
heroes,  maniacs,  etc.,  they  must  have  conventional 
exaggerations  of  them,  if  they  do  not  prefer  these 
to  the  real.  And  along  with  these  tastes  have 
gone  many  attempts  to  preserve  or  to  ameliorate 
the  condition  of  the  peasants,  children,  etc.  To 
this  middle  class,  and  to  the  humble  or  more  hesi- 
tating members  of  it,  Maeterlinck  makes  a  sweet 
and  insinuating  appeal.  No  writer  is  more  tolerant, 
more  mysterious  than  he,  and  none  is  more  easy, 
if  as  easy,  to  read.  The  writing  is  graceful,  and 
as  decorative  as  is  compatible  with  extreme  fluency. 
It  can  be  read  for  the  pure  unintellectual  pleasure 
of  reading.  Nothing  in  the  thought  or  style  can 
shock,  amuse,  or  astonish — not  because  the  books 
contain  nothing  shocking,  amusing,  or  astonishing, 
but  because  the  grave  air  of  the  whole  enchants  or 
hypnotizes.  It  exalts  without  disturbing,  making 
us  "  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know."  We 
do  not  envy  Maleine  and  Mdlisande  and  Alladine 
and  Ygraine  the  majesty  of  woe  which  was  given 
to  them  by  the  corridors  and  impassable  doors  of 
their  castles,  and  the  dungeons  and  caverns  below 
them,  and  the  surrounding  forests,  and  the  sea  and 
ii 


i6a  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

the  seabirds.  The  meanest  of  us  has  a  yet  more 
majestic  stage  for  his  joys  and  sorrows  in  the 
breadth  of  eternity  and  the  complication  of  unin- 
telligible laws.  Take,  for  example,  the  following 
passage  from  the  essay  called  "L'Etoile": 

"  Les  paysans  e"cossais  ont  un  mot  qui  pourrait 
s'appliquer   a   toutes    les   existences.     Dans   leurs 
legendes  ils  appellent  Fey  I'e'tat  d'un  homme  qu'une 
sorte   d'irresistible    impulsion    inte'rieure    entraine, 
malgre1  tous  ses  efforts,  malgre  tous  les  conseils  et 
les  secours,  vers  une  inevitable  catastrophe.     C'est 
ainsi    que    Jacques    Ier,   le   Jacques   de    Catherine 
Douglas,  e'tait  Fey  en  allant,  malgre"   les   presages 
terribles  de  la  terre,  de  1'enfer  et  du  ciel,  passer  les 
f£tes  de  Noel  dans  le  sombre  chateau  de  Perth,  oil 
1'attendait  son  assassin,  le  traitre  Robert  Graeme. 
Qui  de  nous,  s'il  se  rappelle  les  circonstances  du 
malheur   le    plus   decisif  de  sa  vie,  ne   s'est  senti 
possede  de  la  sorte?     II  est  bien  entendu  que  je  ne 
parle  ici  que  de  malheurs  actifs,  de  ceux  qu'il  eut 
e"te  possible  d'eViter  ;  car  il  est  des  malheurs  passifs, 
comme  la  mort  d'un  etre  adore,  qui  nous  rencontrent 
simplement  et  sur   lesquels   nos   mouvements  ne 
sauraient   avoir  aucune  influence.     Souvenez-vous 
du  jour  fatal  de  votre  vie.     Qui  de  nous  n'a  etc 
prevenu  ;  et  bien  qu'il  nous  semble  aujourd'hui  que 
toute  la  destined  eut  pu  etre  changed  par  un  pas 
qu'on  n'aurait  point  fait,  une  porte  qu'on  n'aurait 
pasouverte  une  main  qu'on  n'aurait  pas  levee,  qui 
de  nous  n'a  lutte"  vainement  sans  force  et  sans  espoir 
sur  la  crete  des  parois  de  I'abime,  centre  une  force 
invisible  et  qui  paraissait  sans  puissance? 

"  La  souffle  de  cette  porte  que  j'ai  ouverte,  un 
soir,  devait  eteindre  a  jamais  mon  bonheur,  comme 
il  aurait  e"teint  une  lampe  d£bile ;  et  maintenant, 


FIRST  ESSAYS  163 

lorsque  j'y  songe,  je  ne  puis  pas  me  dire  que  je 
ne  savais  pas.  .  .  .  Et  cependent,  rien  d'important 
ne  m'avait  amen6  sur  le  seuil.  Je  pouvais  m'en 
aller  en  haussant  les  £paules,  aucune  raison  hu- 
maine  ne  pouvait  me  forcer  £  frapper  au  vantail. 
.  .  .  Aucune  raison  humaine  ;  rien  que  la  destinee." 

Such  a  passage  at  once  belittles  and  aggrandizes 
the  common  mortality  of  us  all  by  colouring  with 
the  temperament  of  one  man  experiences  that,  as  a 
rule,  go  for  little  and  are  forgotten. 

When  we  read  these  things  we  can  say  of  him 
what  he  said  of  Emerson,  that  he  vindicated  the 
grandeur  of  life,  and  has  made  a  pathway  of  light 
for  the  workman  leaving  his  workshop ;  that  he 
has  given  a  meaning  which  is  almost  sufficient  to 
this  life,  which  had  lost  its  traditional  horizon,  and 
perhaps  has  shown  us  that  it  is  so  strange,  pro- 
found, and  mighty  that  there  is  no  need  of  any 
aim  but  itself.  He  does  not  know  more  of  it  than 
the  others  ;  but  he  makes  affirmations  with  more 
courage  and  has  confidence  in  the  mystery.  He 
does  not  stand  alone.  If  a  man  has  understood 
and  accepted  Wordsworth's — 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 

Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 

Than  all  the  sages  can— 


i64  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

— if  a  man  has  understood  this  Maeterlinck  offers 
no  difficulties  and  few  novelties.  Maeterlinck's 
early  essays  are  entirely  without  the  modern  feeling 
for  Nature  ;  but  what  has  Wordsworth  left  him 
to  say  about  the  wisdom  of  a  child — that  "  best 
philosopher  "  ? — 

Mighty  Prophet  !     Seer  blest  ! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 

More  than  a  century  earlier  Thomas  Traherne 
was  praising  and  lamenting  "  the  learned  and  the 
happy  ignorance  "  of  childhood,  wishing  to  return 
again  to  infancy  to  improve  his  manhood.  "  How 
wise  was  I  in  infancy  !  "  he  cries.  He  desires  sim- 
plicity, and  is  weary  not  only  of  adult  worldliness, 
but  of  "  all  that  since  the  Fall  mine  eyes  on  earth 
can  find  "  ;  and  "  a  quiet,  silent  person  "  seems  to 
him  one  who  may  "  possess  all  that  is  great  or 
good  in  blessedness,"  for — 

The  Inward  Work  is  the  Supreme ;  for  all 
The  other  were  occasion'd  by  the  Fall. 

Except  where  his  thought  is  confused  by  super- 
ficial religious  forms  he  is  much  like  the  author  of 
"  Le  Tre*sor  des  Humbles."  Like  him,  and  like 
Rousseau,  he  "  sees  in  man's  eating  of  the  fruit  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge  the  cause  of  his  fall  from 
Nature,  much  as  the  theologian  sees  in  the  same 
event  the  cause  of  his  fall  from  God  " — in  the 
words  of  Mr.  Irving  Babbitt's  "New  Laokoon." 
To  the  passages  quoted  from  Wordsworth  should 


FIRST   ESSAYS  165 

be  added  a  phrase  or  two  from  Blake's  "  Ever- 
lasting Gospel,"  such  as — 

Thou  art  a  man.     God  is  no  more. 
Thy  own  humanity  learn  to  adore. 

Or  these  words  on  the  life  of  Jesus  : 

He  left  his  father's  trade  to  roam, 
A  wandering  vagrant  without  home, 
And  thus  he  others'  labours  stole, 
That  he  might  live  above  control. 
The  publicans  and  harlots  he 
Selected  for  his  company, 
And  from  the  adulteress  turned  away 
God's  righteous  law  that  lost  its  play. 

Or  these,  from  "  Auguries  of  Innocence  "  : 

A  skylark  wounded  on  the  wing 

Doth  make  a  cherub  cease  to  sing.  .  .  . 

A  truth  that's  told  with  bad  intent 
Beats  all  the  lies  you  can  invent.  .  .  . 

He  who  mocks  the  infant's  faith 
Shall  be  mocked  in  age  and  death. 

If  these  things  had  been  understood  there  would 
have  been  no  need  for  Maeterlinck  to  write  or  us 
to  read.  Seventeen  hundred  years  ago  an  old 
Epicurean  of  Cappadocia  inscribed  upon  a  wall 
these  words  of  a  faith  which  doubtless  included  all 
that  has  been  learnt — apart  from  books — ever 
since  : 

"  There   is   nothing   to   fear  in  God.     There  is 
nothing  to  feel  in  death.     That  which  man  desires 


1 66  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

can  be  attained.  That  which  man  dreads  can  be 
endured."  (Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  Hibbert 
Journal,  October  1910.) 

Wherever  we  turn  we  can  see  the  thoughts  of 
Maeterlinck.  At  the  beginning  of  De  Quincey's 
essay,  "On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  'Macbeth,'  " 
for  example,  is  a  remark  upon  the  feebleness  of 
the  understanding,  which  is  as  forcible  as  anything 
in  Maeterlinck.  "  Here,"  says  De  Quincey,  "  I 
pause  for  one  moment,  to  exhort  the  reader  never 
to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it 
stands  in  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his 
mind.  The  mere  understanding,  however  useful 
and  indispensable,  is  the  meanest  faculty  in  the 
human  mind,  and  the  most  to  be  distrusted.  .  .  ." 
Nor  could  a  reader  have  been  surprised  to  find  in 
the  essay  "  On  Women "  the  very  words  of  the 
man  in  Browning's  "  Cristina "  : 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment, 

As  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly, 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed, 

Here  an  age  'tis  resting  merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages, 

While  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love-way, 

With  some  other  soul  to  mingle. 

Browning,  in  particular,  gives  many  instances  of 
seeming  magical  intuition.  In  "  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,"  for  example,  one  who  has  just  rashly 
killed  another  in  a  duel  is  told  that,  if  he  had  but 


FIRST  ESSAYS  167 

listened  to  his  enemy's  explanation,  all  would  have 
been  well ;  but  he  exclaims  : 

Why,  as  he  lay  there, 

The  moon  on  his  flushed  cheek,  I  gathered  all 
The  story  ere  he  told  it :    I  saw  through 
The  troubled  surface  of  his  crime  and  yours 
A  depth  of  purity  immovable ; 
Had  I  but  glanced,  where  all  seemed  turbidest, 
Had  gleamed  some  inlet  to  the  calm  beneath ; 
I  would  not  glance  :   my  punishment's  at  hand. 

But  even  if  a  hundred  men  should  wear  out 
their  eyesight  and  find  sources  or  precedents  for 
every  thought  in  Maeterlinck,  they  would  not  thus 
lower  his  position.  The  combination  of  them  is 
his  own,  and  he  can  reach  ears  that  are  closed 
to  Blake.  The  new,  the  unique  thing  in  his  books 
is  in  fact  Maeterlinck.  He  is  the  advocate,  and 
the  preacher.  He  does  not  originate,  but  expands 
with  subtle  eloquence  what  he  has  learnt  from 
Plato,  Plotinus,  Porphyry,  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Behmen,  Ruysbroeck,  Novalis,  Amiel,  Carlyle, 
Emerson,  Ruskin,  and  the  rest.  He  addresses, 
not  philosophers  or  scholars,  but  the  humble,  the 
magazine  readers,  the  general  public,  and  he  is 
neither  technical  nor  obscure.  As  a  rule  the 
mystics  have  not  been  easy  to  understand,  because 
they  speak  with  tongues  which  the  rest  have  to 
learn  with  much  labour ;  not  being  artists  their 
language  owes  its  depth,  not  to  tradition,  but 
apparently  to  immediate  inspiration,  and  it  is 
turbid  from  transit  out  of  the  heavens.  Maeter- 
linck is  perfectly  clear.  Though  warm,  he  is  not 


1 68  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

disturbed.  He  can  draw  upon  all  the  resources  of 
eloquence.  It  is  worth  while  noticing  how  often 
he  uses  words  of  a  certain  colour  to  produce  his 
own  effect.  Look,  for  example,  at  the  essay  on 
"  The  Predestined,"  how  well  weighted  with  pathos 
it  is  by  the  "  few  mothers  "  of  the  opening  sentence, 
by  the  words  "  sad,"  "  gentle,"  "  piteous,"  "  strange," 
"  grave,"  "  mysterious,"  "  timid,"  "  beseeching,"  etc. 
The  following  sentences  from  "  Les  Avertis  "  are 
a  good  example  of  the  means  taken  to  make  the 
"  predestined  "  children  effective  ;  and  they  are  not 
unfairly  chosen  as  a  specimen  of  Maeterlinck's 
early  style  : 

"  Au  college  nous  les  discernions  obscur^ment. 
Us  semblaient  se  chercher  et  se  fuir  a  la  fois 
comme  ceux  qui  ont  la  meme  infirmite\  On  les 
voyait  a  1'ecart  sous  les  arbres  du  jardin.  Us 
avaient  la  meme  gravite  sous  un  sourire  plus 
interrompu  et  plus  immat£riel  que  le  notre,  et 
je  ne  sais  quel  air  d'avoir  peur  de  trahir  un  secret. 
Presque  toujours  ils  se  taisaient  lorsque  ceux  qui 
devaient  vivre  s'approchaient  de  leur  groupe.  .  .  . 
Parlaient-ils  deja  de  I'6v6nement,  ou  bien  savaient- 
ils  que  1'evenement  parlait  a  travers  eux  et 
malgr6  eux,  et  1'entouraient-ils  ainsi  afin  de  le 
cacher  aux  yeux  indiffdrents  ?  " 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  whether  this  indicates 
a  peculiar  experience  of  the  writer's,  or  rather  a 
peculiar  method  of  remembering  events,  or  of 
transfiguring  memory,  or  adorning  it ;  but  I  incline 
to  think  that  the  difference  from  the  ordinary 
is  one  of  style  and  not  of  experience.  The 


FIRST   ESSAYS  169 

" presque  toujours"  is  an  exceedingly  impressive 
modification,  and  yet  not  convincing.  It  is  the 
artist  of  "  Alladine  et  Palomides  "  who  draws  the 
picture  of  some  of  those  predestined  beings 
"lingering"  a  little  longer  than  the  rest,  looking 
at  men  with  an  "  eager  "  smile,  and  then  "  towards 
their  twentieth  year  "  slipping  away  with  "  muffled  " 
footsteps  from  among  men  ;  who  makes  it 
"  evening,"  "  a  sudden  evening,"  when  we  dare  not 
look  at  these  persons,  because  it  is  as  if  they  were 
"  on  life's  further  shore,"  and  now  we  feel  that 
it  is  time  for  saying  something  deeper  than 
common,  saying  something  that  is  "  piteously 
struggling"  and  "craving"  to  be  spoken.  The 
sentimentality  of  the  chapter  is  perfectly  un- 
restrained. Then  observe  the  "  veiled  queens,"  as 
he  calls  our  intuitions,  in  "  Mystic  Morality,"  thus 
recalling  the  queens  who  steered  the  death-barge  of 
Arthur.  Superlatives  abound  ;  words  of  terror, 
mystery,  and  darkness  are  continually  used  ;  words, 
above  all,  of  tenderness,  sorrow,  resignation — 
as  when  he  speaks  of  lovers  recognizing  one 
another,  and  speaking  "  tearfully  "  like  a  girl  who 
has  found  a  lost  sister  ;  or  women  in  their  "  little  " 
homes,  one  bending  forward,  another  "  sobbing  "  ; 
or  the  soul  smiling  a  "  meek,  resigned  smile " ; 
or  turning  the  past  into  nothing  but  a  few 
"  saddened  smiles,"  and  thus  mastering  the  future  ; 
or  learning  how  to  "  weep  in  the  silence  of 
humblest  kindliness."  When  he  wishes  to  describe 
the  "  timidity  of  the  divine  "  in  man,  he  says  that 
upon  it  rests  "  the  tender  meekness  of  the  little 


170  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

ailing  girl  for  whom  her  mother  will  not  send 
when  strangers  come  to  the  house."  In  "La 
Sagesse  et  la  Destined "  this  eloquence  is  less 
obvious,  but  essentially  the  same,  and  we  smile 
when  he  pleads  that  we  diminish  things  if  they  are 
expressed  in  words,  for  in  the  same  chapter  he 
asks  whether,  if  we  become  pure,  we  shall  conceal 
our  petty  motives  from  the  angels  before  us,  and 
then,  in  the  next  sentence,  whether  there  is  not 
much  in  us  that  will  need  the  pity  of  the  gods 
on  the  mountain.  The  eloquence  which  gave 
modern  Selysette  her  tower  gives  each  of  Maeter- 
linck's ideas  at  least  a  rag  of  royal  purple.  Once, 
in  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destinee,"  he  is  so  carried 
away  by  his  description  of  a  stream  as  an  image 
of  the  man  who  is  oppressed  by  fate  that  he 
beholds  it  staggering — struggling — and  climbing 
as  well  as  falling.  And  no  better  proof  of  the 
power  of  this  eloquence  could  be  given  than  its 
effect  upon  the  admirable  translator,  Mr.  Alfred 
Sutro.  In  the  thirty-sixth  and  thirty-seventh 
sections  of  his  translation  of  "  La  Sagesse  et  la 
Destinee,"  for  example,  may  be  felt  the  rhythm  of 
numerous  dimly  veiled  hexameters  and  penta- 
meters, often  several  in  succession.  What  makes 
hexameters  and  pentameters  in  Mr.  Sutro's  prose 
probably  produces  a  corresponding  effect  in  those 
readers  who  are  not  also  writers. 

But  Maeterlinck's  store  of  eloquence  is  richer 
yet.  He  has  his  clear  and  sweet  style,  his  senti- 
mentally coloured  words,  his  infectious  rhythms, 
and  he  has  the  vague,  often  in  alliance  with 


FIRST   ESSAYS  171 

exaggeration,  as  in  "  Le  ReVeil  de  1'Ame,"  where 
he  speaks  of  spiritual  phenomena  manifesting 
themselves  in  the  workaday  lives  of  the  humblest 
— "  mysterious,  direct  workings,  that  bring  soul 
nearer  to  soul,"  and  where  he  asserts  that  "  all " 
that  men  in  other  generations  have  learned  of  the 
heart,  soul,  and  spirit  has  been  handed  down  to 
us.  Phrases  abound  like  that  where  he  speaks 
of  words  in  poetry  revealing,  "  I  know  not  what 
intangible  and  unceasing  striving  of  the  soul 
towards  its  own  beauty  and  truth,"  of  "the 
thousands  of  mysteries  "  surrounding  us,  of  "  the 
inexplicable  within  ourselves."  He  tells  us  that  if 
we  look  at  the  sky  instead  of  at  the  wall  before  the 
embrace  of  love,  the  embrace  will  "not  be  the 
same."  In  one  place  he  tells  us  that  we  must 
not  despise  ourselves  if  we  are  saddened  by 
another's  happiness,  because  farther  on  the  road 
we  shall  find  what  will  not  sadden  us,  and,  if  we 
do  not,  "  it  matters  little  :  something  there  was 
that  was  not  sad."  When  in  "  Wisdom  and 
Destiny "  he  bids  us  live  ready  to  welcome  a 
great  revelation,  he  tells  us  that  we  must  crave 
for  it,  desire  it  as  "  lofty,"  "  perfect,"  "  vast,"  "  en- 
nobling," "  beautiful,"  "  glorious,"  "  ample  "  ;  and 
that,  whether  it  accords  with  our  hopes  or  not, 
it  will  add  to  us  what  is  "  nobler  "  and  "  loftier." 
He  alludes  often  to  "beauty,"  "justice,"  "love," 
and  feelings  that  are  "  noblest "  and  "  loftiest." 
His  defence  is  in  one  place  that  he  can  only 
be  understood  by  those  having  "  the  same  point 
of  sensibility  as  himself,"  and  in  another  that 


172  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

the  best  in  us  lies  in  "  those  ideas  that   are   not 
yet  clear." 

Maeterlinck  has  another  advantage,  perhaps  the 
greatest  of  all,  in  his  extraordinary  experience. 
Mr.  Sutro  has  told  us,  in  the  Introduction  to  his 
translation  of  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destinee,"  that 
Maeterlinck  used  often  to  watch  the  quiet  and 
monotonous  life  of  the  Flemish  peasants  near  his 
home,  and  that  he  often  peeped  into  one  cottage 
where  lived  seven  brothers  and  a  sister,  "  all  old, 
toothless,  worn,"  who  worked  together  and  in  the 
evening  sat  together  silent  or  talking  with  repeti- 
tions like  those  of  "  Les  Aveugles."  In  "The 
Predestined  "  he  speaks  of  the  mystery  that  almost 
finds  expression  in  the  presence  of  one  of  these 
strange  beings,  but  not  quite.  He  tells  us  that 
he  has  often  seen  such  things  happen,  and  once 
before  his  brother  died,  though  he  characteristically 
tells  us  nothing  definite.  In  the  same  chapter  he 
tells  us  how  he  has  noticed  presentiments  and 
strange  signs  in  the  faces  of  men  who  were  to  die 
even  by  accident.  A  page  later  he  reveals  that 
he  has  known  many  destined  to  die  by  the  same 
death,  and  that  at  school  he  and  others  were 
"  vaguely  conscious "  of  them  ;  yet  further  they 
were  observed  to  frequent  certain  places  together 
and  he  knew  their  looks  perfectly.  Still  more 
remarkable  is  the  experience,  mentioned  in  "Mystic 
Morality,"  of  standing  before  the  corpse  of  his 
bitterest  enemy,  or  several  of  his  bitterest  enemies 
perhaps.  He  would  perhaps  wish  us  to  be  im- 
pressed by  the  breath  of  air  from  an  opening  door 


FIRST   ESSAYS  173 

which  was  to  destroy  his  happiness  for  ever ;  but 
he  can  only  say  that,  when  thinking  of  it  now,  he 
cannot  persuade  himself  that  he  was  not  at  the 
moment  aware  of  what  was  to  happen. 

There  is  a  touch  of  the  incredibly  romantic — or 
is  it  only  immaturity? — about  these  personal 
references,  and  it  is  to  those  which  are  simpler 
that  we  turn  when  we  feel  the  lack  of  roots  in 
Maeterlinck.  They  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
essay  on  women,  nor  easily  perhaps  in  any  part 
of  "  Le  Tresor."  In  "La  Sagesse  et  la  Destinee  " 
they  are  commoner.  It  is  Maeterlinck  we  see  in 
the  writer  who  insists  on  the  humbleness  of  man's 
place  on  earth,  who  can  give  no  reasons  for  a  rule 
except  out  of  his  feelings,  and  who  says  that  a 
sage  might  well  answer  the  question,  whether  it 
would  be  good  or  not  for  the  Jews  to  vanish  or  to 
preponderate,  with  the  words:  "In  what  comes  to 
pass  will  be  happiness."  Significant  is  his  com- 
ment upon  the  death  of  Emily  Bronte,  unmarried 
in  her  twenty-ninth  year,  that  it  is  "sad  to  die  a 
virgin,"  because  it  is  every  one's  duty  to  "  offer  to 
his  destiny  all  that  can  be  offered  to  the  destiny  of 
man."  Another  curious  passage  is  one  that  begins 
"  If  God  there  be ".  ...  As  a  pendant  to  this 
should  be  taken  the  sentences  where  he  says  that 
the  tranquillity  and  calmness  of  any  man's  soul  are 
due  to  human  virtues,  and  that  Fe'ne'lon's,  for 
example,  were  due  rather  to  his  loyalty  to  Madame 
Guyon  and  his  love  for  the  Dauphin  than  to  the 
promise  of  his  religion — which  reminds  us  of  the 
Christian  Wordsworth  calling  this  earth  the  place 


174  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

where  we  have  our  happiness  "or  not  at  all." 
Other  readers  may  find  other  passages  of  this 
boldly  revealing  kind,  but  most  would  perhaps 
agree  that  they  are  few  for  such  a  book.  They 
are  not  enough  to  add  to  the  weight  of  the  ideas 
and  the  eloquence  that  also  of  a  human  personality. 
The  tenderness  and  pity,  the  placidity  compounded 
of  gentle  resignation  and  hope,  the  sense  of  terror 
and  vastness,  and  also  of  the  beauty  of  life,  are  not 
intense  enough  to  define  a  personality  as  well  as  a 
type.  But  I  am  not  sure ;  the  wistful  optimism 
is  perhaps  peculiar  to  Maeterlinck,  and  his  fre- 
quently vague  intangibility  as  well.  These  quali- 
ties, at  least,  have  done  most  to  recommend  him  to 
men,  these  and  the  ideas,  common  in  themselves, 
which  in  him  attain  a  noticeable  combination. 
Above  all,  he  preaches  the  mystery  and  greatness 
of  life  on  earth,  of  everything  in  this  life  and  of 
every  one.  He  would  make  the  depth  of  this 
mystery  and  the  height  of  this  greatness  so  uni- 
versal that  the  old  crude  judgments  of  men  should 
appal  us.  Though  he  sometimes  lets  slip  a  phrase 
about  a  common  or  petty  soul,  his  writing  suggests 
that  there  is  no  such  thing,  and  that  all  men  are 
equal  except  in  appearances,  and  that  all  men  are 
different.  "  Divine,"  which  used  to  be  the  most 
honouring  of  compliments,  he  would  either  apply 
to  all  men  or  substitute  for  it,  with  implied  increase 
of  honour,  the  epithet  "human."  Not  that  he 
wishes  or  thinks  it  possible  to  destroy  all  dis- 
tinctions, but  that  for  the  time  being  this 
fundamental  equality  in  spirit  seems  to  him  to 


FIRST   ESSAYS  175 

be  the  one  thing  needful  to  mention  after  its 
obscurity  and  ignominy  of  ages.  He  condemns 
no  man  ;  he  would  have  us  condemn  no  man.  Nor 
is  it  only  every  man  and  every  woman  and  every 
child  that  he  exalts,  but  every  action.  The  subtlety 
of  our  actions  and  the  lost  profundity  of  their 
sources  weigh  upon  him  like  "  the  silence  of  those 
infinite  spaces  "  upon  Pascal,  and  behind  each  one 
of  them  he  is  aware  of  infinity  and  eternity.  These 
spaces  terrify  him  still ;  the  enormity  of  Nature 
and  the  might  of  chance  terrify  him  without  over- 
whelming, and  though  they  make  men  pigmies  in 
aspect  yet  they  dignify  them  still  more.  For  the 
creator  and  ruler  of  such  beings,  the  various  bene- 
volent, insolent,  or  indifferent  powers  that  have 
been  called  God  seem  to  him  inadequate,  and  he 
uses  the  word  sparingly  and  either  without  con- 
viction or  simply  in  connection  with  persons  who 
used  it  when  they  were  alive. 

Like  the  poets  and  like  the  religious  writers  of 
old,  he  makes  men  familiar  with  the  idea  that 
life  is  not  what  it  seems  and  is  never  so  little, 
and  his  quiet  tones  are  all  the  more  startling 
after  the  bullying  roars  of  Carlyle  and  Ruskin. 
He  is  kindly,  and  never  dogmatic  ;  he  proposes 
nothing  difficult ;  he  will  inflict  no  painful  searching 
of  heart,  and  to  such  as  expect  physic  to  be 
nasty  he  is  disappointing.  It  must  be  hard  to 
be  a  true  and  full  mystic  after  having  read 
Plato,  Plotinus,  Ruysbroeck,  Behmen,  Novalis,  and 
the  rest ;  but  only  a  mystic  could  rightly  judge 
the  reality  of  Maeterlinck's  mysticism,  and  he 


176  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

would  not  judge  at  all.  He  must  be  left  to 
mystic  Life  itself  to  be  judged.  In  the  meantime 
I  can  only  say  that  I  find  in  these  two  books 
a  certain  appearance  of  facility  and  unreality,  as 
of  one  whose  power  of  expression  exceeded  his 
thought  and  experience  but  not  his  reading  ;  and 
the  voice  might  be  that  of  one  coming  out  of 
a  library,  not  a  wilderness. 


XI 

THREE    PLAYS:    "  SCEUR     BEATRICE,"     "  ARDIANE 
ET   BARBE   BLEUE,"   AND   "  JOYZELLE " 

SCEUR  BEATRICE"  and  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe 
Bleue  "  followed  "  Aglavaine  et  Selysette  " 
after  an  interval  of  five  years.  "  Soeur  Beatrice  "  is 
founded  upon  an  old  story  which  John  Davidson 
used  in  his  "  Ballad  of  a  Nun,"  and  it  might  have 
been  written  as  a  parable  of  pardon  to  illustrate 
the  "  mystic  morality "  of  "  Le  Tr6sor  des 
Humbles." 

Sister  Beatrice  is  about  to  elope  from  the 
convent  with  Bellid(>r,  and  is  praying  before  the 
Virgin's  image.  She  hears  the  horses  of  her 
lover — he  comes  in  with  costly  garments  and  jewels, 
and  while  she  has  swooned,  protesting  against  his 
wild  embraces,  he  takes  off  her  veil  and  mantle. 
She  revives,  but  he  dresses  her  in  the  costly  dress 
while  she  still  prays  to  the  Virgin.  She  would 
have  sounded  the  matin-bell,  only  the  nuns  are 
heard  approaching ;  then  she  throws  her  nun's 
things  before  the  image,  calling  for  pity  ;  but  when 
Bellidor  again  embraces  her  she  returns  his  kiss  for 
the  first  time,  and  they  go  out.  As  the  sun  shines 
12  177 


1 78  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

into  the  corridor,  the  Virgin  stirs  and  comes  to 
life  and  puts  on  the  dress  of  Beatrice.  Impersona- 
ting Beatrice,  she  makes  miraculous  gifts  to  the 
poor  who  come  to  the  convent,  but  the  nuns,  all 
save  one,  think  that  she  has  robbed  the  image,  so 
that  she  is  condemned  to  be  scourged.  Instead 
of  the  scourging  there  is  another  miracle  of  "  flames 
and  strange  splendours "  and  "  living  garlands." 
Abbess  and  priest  kneel  and  confess  that  they 
have  sinned,  "  For  sister  Beatrice  is  holy."  The 
Virgin  assumes  the  likeness  and  duties  of  Beatrice. 
Twenty-five  years  later,  while  the  last  strokes  of 
the  matin-bell  are  heard,  the  aged  Sister  Beatrice 
enters,  worn  out  and  in  rags,  and  falls  at 
the  feet  of  the  statue,  though  she  has  forgotten 
how  to  pray.  Her  mantle  and  veil,  lying  where 
she  left  them,  she  puts  on.  The  nuns  enter  and 
see  nun  Beatrice  and  the  restored  image.  They 
fall  on  their  knees.  She  talks,  as  if  in  dream,  of 
her  children  and  their  death  in  want.  She  sees 
that  the  nuns  do  not  look  angry.  Presently  the 
Abbess  kisses  her  hands,  and  she  snatches  them 
away  ;  and  another  kisses  her  feet,  that  "  used  to 
run  to  sin."  She  wanders  again,  telling  how 
Bellidor  ceased  to  love  her  after  three  months, 
and  how  she  became  a  prostitute,  and  how  she 
killed  her  last  child.  The  Abbess  tries  to  stop  her 
mouth  in  vain,  and  tells  her  she  is  most  holy. 
They  believe  that  Beatrice  has  never  left  them, 
and  that  this  is  only  part  of  the  terrible  strife 
about  "  great  saints."  She  cannot  understand,  but 
supposes  that  an  angel  has  taught  them  to  know 


THREE   PLAYS  179 

and  to  pardon  all.     She  sinks  back  exhausted,  and 
the  nuns  fall  on  their  knees  around  the  bed. 

"  Sceur  Beatrice "  is  a  graceful  dramatic  enter- 
tainment which  could  probably  hold  many  different 
audiences.  It  has  three  or  four  scenes  of  a  signifi- 
cance so  large  and  distinct  that  words  are  almost 
unnecessary,  and  nothing  too  mysterious  or  too 
surprising  mars  the  brilliance  of  the  melodrama. 
It  has,  in  fact,  an  outline  very  much  like  that  which 
any  play  upon  this  subject  by  a  modern  writer 
would  have,  and  it  might  be  performed  without 
revealing  its  authorship.  But  while  it  proves  that 
Maeterlinck  can  rival  men  of  alien  talents  on  their 
own  ground,  it  is  also  saturated  with  his  own 
doctrine.  In  "La  Morale  Mystique "  he  had 
written  : 

"  II  semble  que  notre  morale  se  transforme  et 
qu'elle  s'avance  a  petits  pas  vers  des  contr6es  plus 
hautes  qu'on  ne  voit  pas  encore.  Et  c'est  pourquoi 
le  moment  est  peut-etre  venu  de  se  poser  quelques 
questions  nouvelles.  Qu'arriverait-il,  par  exemple, 
si  notre  ame  devenait  visible  tout  a  coup  et  qu'elle 
dut  s'avancer  au  milieu  de  ses  sceurs  assemblies, 
depouil!6e  de  ses  voiles,  mais  chargee  des  ses  pensees 
les  plus  secretes  et  trainant  a  sa  suite  les  actes  les  plus 
mysterieux  de  sa  vie  que  rien  ne  pouvait  exprimer  ? 
De  quoi  rougirait-elle?  Que  voudrait-elle  cacher? 
Irait-elle,  comme  une  femme  pudique,  Jeter  le  long 
manteau  de  ses  cheveux  sur  les  pe'che's  sans 
nombre  de  la  chair?  Elle  les  a  ignores,  et  ces 
peches  ne  1'ont  jamais  atteinte.  Us  ont  e"te 
commis  a  mille  lieues  de  son  trdne ;  et  Tame  du 
Sodomite  meme  passerait  au  milieu  de  la  foule 


i8o  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

sans  se  douter  de  rien,  et  portant  dans  ses  yeux 
le  sourire  transparent  de  1'enfant.  Elle  n'est  pas 
intervenue,  elle  poursuivait  sa  vie  du  cote"  des 
lumieres,  et  c'est  de  cette  vie  seule  qu'elle  se 
souviendra.  .  .  .  Elle  n'aura  point  honte  de  ce 
qu'elle  n'a  pas  fait ;  et  elle  peut  rester  pure  au 
centre  d'un  grand  meurtre.  Souvent,  elle  transforme 
en  clarte"s  interieures  tout  le  mal  auquel  il 
faut  bien  qu'elle  assiste.  Tout  depend  d'un  principe 
invisible  et  de  la  nait  sans  doute  1'inexplicable 
indulgence  des  dieux." 

What  Maeterlinck  writes  in  "  Le  Tr6sor  des 
Humbles "  the  Virgin  sings  in  "  Sceur  Beatrice." 
She  sings  this  song,  to  be  found  also  in  "  Quinze 
Chansons  "  : 

A  toute  ame  qui  pleure, 

A  tout  pe"chd  qui  passe, 

J'ouvre  au  sein  des  e"toiles 

Mes  mains  pleines  de  graces. 

II  n'est  pe'che  qui  vive 
Quand  1'amour  a  parle", 
II  n'est  ame  qui  meure 
Quand  1'amour  a  pleure*. 

Et  si  1'amour  s'dgare 
Aux  senders  d'ici-bas, 
Ses  larmes  me  retrouvent 
Et  ne  s'egarent  pas. 

This  is  the  core  and  essence  of  the  play.  Love 
pardons  all.  In  the  first  act,  when  Beatrice  is 
tempted  to  go  away,  she  appeals  to  the  Virgin  to 
hear  her  as  "  Only  a  girl  who  does  not  under- 
stand," as  one  who  knows  nothing,  while  Our  Lady 
knows  all.  When  the  peasant  girl  reports  that 


THREE  PLAYS  181 

Beatrice  is  said  to  have  been  seen  riding  on  the 
prince's  horse,  the  Virgin  says 

Only  God  saw  her  not,  and  nothing  heard, 
and  again  to  the  crowd  of  poor  : 

God  does  not  see  the  ill 
Done  without  hatred. 

The  Virgin  impersonates  the  lost  nun,  and  gathers 
credit  for  her  name  under  the  disguise.  But 
Bellidor  boldly  anticipated  this.  While  Beatrice 
was  kneeling  to  the  Virgin  he  asked :  "  Is  it  not 
she  that  asks,  and  you  that  pardon  ?  "  and  he  sees 
the  Virgin  and  Beatrice  as  two  sisters. 

Hating  the  gross  code  by  which  men  and  women 
are  appraised  for  actions  and  their  obvious  conse- 
quences, Maeterlinck  is  inclined  to  say  that  actions 
are  not  to  be  considered  for  or  against,  or  if  they 
are  it  must  be  contrariwise.  He  cannot  leave  the 
beautiful  mediaeval  tale  to  preach  its  own  gospel, 
but  seems  almost  to  raise  it  from  a  tremendous  and 
warning  exception  into  a  controvertible  moral  and 
a  barren  law.  He  discards  mere  pity  for  the 
sinner,  and  gives  glory.  She  is  sainted  by  her 
sister  nuns,  though  it  is  impossible  not  to  dwell 
on  the  fact  that  they  praise  her  in  ignorance  of  her 
life,  and  also  under  the  belief  that  the  Virgin's  acts 
have  really  been  hers.  She  has  been  a  prostitute, 
and  she  has  neglected  or  killed  her  children,  but 
she  has  suffered,  and  the  Virgin  protects  her 
against  the  customary  judgments  of  her  fellow 
creatures.  Unless  the  Virgin  again  intervenes, 


1 82  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

the  next  sufferer  will  meet  with  these  judgments 
exactly  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  It  is  a  miracle, 
isolated  and  unavailing. 

"  Ardiane  et  Barbe  Bleue "  is  a  version  of  the 
story  of  Blue  Beard.  The  scene  is  a  hall  in  the 
castle  of  Blue  Beard,  and  a  crowd  outside  is 
shouting  out  because  a  sixth  wife  has  come  to  the 
tyrant.  Ardiane  and  a  nurse  enter,  and  the  nurse 
tells  her  that  Blue  Beard  has  killed  five  women, 
but  she  thinks  that  they  are  not  dead.  She  has 
six  silver  keys  and  one  of  gold,  and  this  alone, 
being  forbidden,  she  keeps.  But  the  nurse  picks 
up  the  six,  and  one  by  one  they  open  the  six 
lesser  doors  of  the  hall.  Out  of  the  first  pour 
amethysts,  from  the  second  sapphires,  from  the 
third  pearls,  from  the  fourth  emeralds,  from  the 
fifth  rubies,  from  the  sixth  diamonds,  and  with 
these  Ardiane  decks  herself.  She  opens  the  great 
door  with  the  golden  key,  and  hears  the  song  of — 

Orlamonde's  five  daughters, 

When  the  faery  died, 
Orlamonde's  five  daughters 

Sought  to  win  outside, 

and  Blue  Beard  emerges  and  accuses  her  at  once 
of  opening  the  forbidden  doors,  like  her  sisters. 
He  tries  to  drag  her  away,  and  at  her  cry  the 
crowd  bursts  in  to  save  her,  but  she  puts  them 
back,  saying  that  he  has  done  her  no  harm.  In 
the  next  act  Ardiane,  with  her  nurse,  is  descending 
the  steps  of  a  dark,  subterranean  hall.  She  finds 
five  captive  women  in  rags,  dazzled  by  her  light. 


THREE   PLAYS  183 

They  have  never  sought  for  escape.  Ardiane's 
lamp  goes  out,  and,  as  she  feels  along  to  the  bolts 
and  bars,  the  others  are  terrified  because  they 
think  that  the  sea  is  without  and  will  burst  in. 
She  breaks  a  pane  in  an  old  window,  and  then 
other  panes,  flooding  the  hall  thus  with  intolerable 
light,  in  which  gradually  they  can  see  the  sky,  the 
green  world,  the  village,  the  people.  Ardiane  goes 
out,  and  they  follow  into  the  light  and  wind. 
Again  in  the  third  act  the  women  are  in  the  hall 
of  jewels,  and  Ardiane  helps  them  to  adorn  them- 
selves. Blue  Beard  is  away,  but  no  escape  has 
been  found.  At  last  the  crying  of  the  crowd 
announces  his  return.  The  uproar  grows ;  he  is 
deserted  by  his  negroes  and  struck  down,  and  the 
women  are  in  terror  lest  he  should  be  killed.  The 
peasants  bring  him  in  bound  and  wish  to  kill  him, 
but  Ardiane  sends  them  away.  The  women  kneel 
about  him.  Ardiane  cuts  his  bonds  and  then  bids 
him  good-bye,  going  away,  but  leaving  the  others 
behind  with  Blue  Beard. 

Here  again  the  spectacles  are  noble  and  distinct, 
and  the  play  is  a  series  of  tableaux  with  optional 
words.  The  scenery  may  recall  the  halls  and 
vaults  of  the  early  plays,  but  it  has  only  a  super- 
ficial resemblance,  except  when  Ardiane  is  breaking 
an  entrance  for  the  light  like  the  sisters  of 
Palomides.  Four  of  the  characters  bear  the  old 
names-— Ygraine,  Melisande,  Selysette,  Alladine; 
but  the  atmosphere  is  purely  that  of  the  theatre. 
The  magic  is  stage  magic  ;  the  mystery  is  con- 
trived. The  vaults  and  the  hall  with  the  many 


184  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

doors  really  seem  to  emphasize  the  difference 
between  this  play  and  the  early  ones.  In  them 
there  was  a  natural  mystery  of  darkness,  space, 
and  obscurity,  the  mystery  of  a  yet  dim  and  half- 
understood  dawn  world.  In  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe 
Bleue  "  all  is  theatrical  :  it  begins  and  ends  in  a 
theatre,  and  has  no  existence  save  as  a  number  of 
picturesque  and  uncertainly  symbolic  scenes.  It 
provides  opportunities  for  impressive  and  subtle 
staging,  and  its  words  are  worthy.  Ardiane's 
speech  when  she  sees  the  cataract  of  diamonds  is 
a  brilliant  piece  of  the  eloquence  of  Maeterlinck, 
the  descriptive  essayist : 

"  O  mes  clairs  diamants  !  Je  ne  vous  cherchais 
pas,  mais  je  vous  salue  sur  ma  route !  Immortelle 
rosee  de  lumiere !  Ruisselez  sur  mes  mains, 
illuminez  mes  bras,  e"blouissez  ma  chair !  Vous 
etes  purs,  infatigables  et  ne  mourrez  jamais,  et  ce 
qui  s'agite  en  vos  feux,  com  me  un  peuple  d'esprit 
qui  seme  des  e^oiles,  c'est  la  passion  de  la  clart6 
qui  a  tout  p£n6tre\  ne  se  repose  pas,  et  n'a  plus 
rien  a  vaincre  qu'elle-meme  !  .  .  .  Pleuvez,  pleuvez 
encore,  entrailles  de  l'ete\  exploits  de  la  lumiere 
et  conscience  innombrable  des  flammes !  Vous 
blesserez  mes  yeux  sans  lasser  mes  regards." 

As  the  pictures,  so  some  of  the  words,  are 
symbolic.  Such  is  Ardiane's  reply  to  Blue  Beard 
when  he  has  told  her  that,  by  opening  the  door, 
she  has  lost  the  happiness  he  had  willed  for  her  : 

The  happiness  I  would  lives  not  in  darkness. 


THREE  PLAYS  185 

But  it  no  more  depends  upon  its  value  as  an 
allegory  than  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  It  is  an  old 
tale  reconstructed  in  Maeterlinck's  manner,  which 
is  to  multiply  symbols.  It  is  more  material  and 
plainly  sensuous  than  any  of  the  works  which 
preceded  it.  It  says  all  that  it  means  and  suggests 
nothing.  It  has  something  of  the  air  of  a  piece 
of  bravado,  and  in  its  kind — its  hard,  gorgeous, 
pictorial  kind — it  is  triumphant.  It  is  only  fair  to 
recall  here  that,  in  the  Introduction  to  his  three 
volumes  of  plays,  Maeterlinck  spoke  of  both  "  Sceur 
Beatrice "  and  "  Ardiane  et  Barbe  Bleue "  with 
genial  disparagement  He  said  that  they  belonged 
to  a  class,  of  composition  that  was  useful  because 
it  gave  musicians  a  theme  for  lyric  development. 
They  aimed  at  nothing  more  than  this,  and  moral 
or  philosophic  second  intentions  were  not  to  be 
looked  for  in  them. 

The  later  "Joyzelle,"  acted  and  published  in 
1903,  is  a  play  of  the  same  class,  except  that  the 
story  is  unfamiliar.  The  characters  are  Merlin, 
Lanc^or  his  son,  Joyzelle,  and  Arielle,  who  is 
Merlin's  invisible  genius.  The  scene  is  Merlin's 
island.  Merlin  and  Lance"or  are  strangers  to  one 
another,  according  to  some  compact,  and  Merlin  is 
not  permitted  to  save  his  son,  though  the  old  man 
knows  already.that  if  the  youth's  love — which  he  can 
foresee  rapidly  approaching — is  perfect,  he  must  die 
soon.  The  father  and  Arielle  believe  that  Joyzelle 
will  bring  him  this  perfect  love  ;  but,  except  by 
difficult  proofs,  they  cannot  certainly  know.  Then 
they  see  the  two  lovers  meet  for  the  first  time 


1 86  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

They  are  strangers  on  the  island  ;  Joyzelle  be- 
trothed to  one  whom  she  does  not  love,  and 
Lancdor  promised  to  one  whom  he  cannot  refuse, 
because — as  he  believes — of  his  father's  dying 
wishes.  Joyzelle  scorns  in  both  cases  the  bonds 
not  of  love's  making.  She  fears  that  the  king  of 
the  island,  who  saved  her  life,  is  in  love  with  her — 
a  strange  old  man  who  is  always  thinking  of  a 
lost  son.  He  enters — it  is  Merlin.  He  asks  Joy- 
zelle if  she  knows  Lanceor,  and  she  answers  "  Yes," 
and  that,  though  they  have  but  just  met,  it  is 
enough.  He  tells  her  that  her  happiness  is  his 
own,  but  he  condemns  Lanceor  to  keep  within 
certain  limits  upon  the  island  ;  if  he  meets  Joyzelle, 
he  is  lost.  Lanceor  promises  to  fly  from  her  "  if 
her  life  is  at  stake  "  ;  but  Joyzelle  will  make  no 
promise.  In  a  neglected  garden  they  meet  again. 
Joyzelle  cannot  persuade  Lanceor  to  go  away  and 
avoid  the  doom.  They  embrace,  and  Joyzelle  says 
that  she  used  to  embrace  him  in  her  dreams,  and 
together  they  enjoy  the  present  and  recall  the 
enjoyment  of  the  past  dreams.  When  they  look 
round  they  see  the  garden  transfigured  by  flowers 
and  birds'  songs,  which  will  betray  their  meeting 
to  Merlin.  At  the  coming  of  Merlin  Lanceor  hides 
in  a  thicket  and  is  mortally  wounded.  His  father 
alone  can  restore  him,  and  he  does  so  :  left  alone 
with  him,  he  embraces  him,  and  bids  him  have  no 
fear,  because  all  this  is  for  his  happiness.  Still, 
Lanceor  knows  nothing  of  their  relationship. 
Merlin  is  powerless  to  forbid  Arielle's  plan  to 
transform  herself  into  a  fair  woman  to  tempt 


THREE  PLAYS  187 

Lanceor,  which  she  successfully  performs.  The 
two  are  found  embracing  by  Joyzelle.  Lanc6or 
begins  by  denying  all,  and  ends  by  driving  away 
Joyzelle.  In  the  third  act  Lanceor  appears  worn, 
like  Beatrice.  He  confesses  to  Joyzelle  that  he 
did  kiss  Arielle,  but  that  his  soul  was  not  a  prey 
to  the  hostile  power  which  overcame  him.  But 
Joyzelle  had  seen  his  soul,  and,  having  her  great 
gift  of  love,  she  knew  that  it  was  not  Lanceor  that 
was  lying.  In  another  scene  Arielle  kisses  the 
sleeping  Joyzelle,  and  finds  her  constant  even  in 
dreams.  She  advises  Merlin  to  find  his  happiness 
in  Joyzelle,  because  otherwise  he  must  fall  under 
the  fatal  enchantments  of  Viviane.  Merlin  tries 
to  corrupt  Joyzelle  by  tplling  her  that  her  lover  is 
again  in  another  woman's  arms,  but  she  does  not 
even  turn  her  eyes  to  deny  this  ;  she  denies  be- 
cause "he  is  herself."  In  the  fourth  act  Lanceor 
is  lying  lifeless,  and  Joyzelle  is  trying  to  restore 
him.  She  will  say  that  she  no  longer  loves  him  if 
only  Merlin  will  save  his  life.  She  even  promises 
to  give  herself  to  Merlin,  which  is  the  condition 
he  lays  down.  Merlin,  restoring  Lanceor,  begs  to 
be  forgiven  for  the  torture  he  has  been  compelled 
by  "  destiny  "  to  inflict.  She  does  not  reveal  the 
condition  to  her  awakened  lover.  In  the  last  act 
Lanceor  has  learnt  that  Merlin  is  his  father. 
Merlin  has  explained  himself  as  an  instrument  of 
fate.  Lanceor  is  happy  until  he  learns  that  Joy- 
zelle's  most  dangerous  proof  is  yet  to  come.  Arielle 
tries  to  persuade  Merlin  against  this  proof,  but  in 
vain.  Joyzelle  comes  to  his  bed,  and,  finding  him 


i88  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

asleep,  raises  her  dagger.  The  blow  is  turned 
aside  by  Arielle,  and  Merlin  rises  and  embraces 
her,  saying  that  she  has  triumphed.  Lancdor 
enters,  and  both  embrace  their  tormentor,  who 
himself  goes  to  meet  less  kindly  evils. 

This  play  is  made  entirely  out  of  the  philosophy 
of  the  essays,  and,  unlike  "Beatrice"  or  "  Barbe 
Bleue,"  has  nothing  in  it  which  is  common  property. 
It  is  even  like  the  early  plays  in  so  far  as  destiny 
is  a  prominent  character,  but  much  unlike  because 
destiny  is  not  a  hidden,  dark,  and  inhuman  power, 
but  personified  in  the  form  of  a  fatherly  and  in 
the  end  benign  old  man.  As  in  "Barbe  Bleue,"  the 
characters  seem  to  be  actors  and  actresses,  and 
the  play  is  altogether  theatrical.  Compared  with 
the  early  plays,  it  has  great  warmth  of  feeling  and 
brightness  of  colouring,  but  it  is  even  less  real. 
M61isande  and  Alladine  were  the  creations  of  a 
poet  who  was  turning  philosopher  ;  Joyzelle  is 
the  creation  of  a  philosopher  who  is  a  dazzling 
rhetorician.  Like  the  early  plays,  this  one  has  a 
deserted  palace,  with  marble  staircases,  a  prison 
tower,  etc. ;  but  they  are  cheerful  and  sunny  (if 
with  a  theatrical  sunlight)  instead  of  gloomy  and 
astonishing.  Not  so  easily  as  "  Barbe  Bleue,"  it 
might  be  played  without  words,  so  large  and 
obviously  significant  are  the  combinations  of  the 
characters  into  scenes.  Nine-tenths  of  it  would 
thus,  however,  be  lost,  for  nine-tenths  of  it  are 
given  to  the  questions  ef  the  power  of  love  and 
man's  control  over  the  future.  As  in  "  Beatrice," 
it  is  a  woman's  love  that  is  glorified  ;  but  here 


THREE  PLAYS  189 

love  helps  her  to  endure  the  suffering  which  leads 
to  the  perfection  of  her  love,  and  love,  not  suffering, 
triumphs.  All  is  forgiven  to  Beatrice  because 
she  has  once  loved ;  Joyzelle  forgives  everything 
because  she  has  loved.  Joyzelle  is  willing  to 
suffer  anything,  and  to  say  anything,  extreme 
truth  or  extreme  falsehood,  and  her  love  never 
wavers  or  changes  or  knows  fear.  Even  in  her 
sleep  she  is  not  to  be  tempted,  while  Lanceor 
gives  way  at  once  to  Arielle.  Nevertheless,  Merlin 
calls  it  a  "  noble  and  beautiful  "  love  which  is  thus 
"  reduced  to  nothing  in  the  arms  of  a  phantom." 
So  great  is  Joyzelle's  love  that  Merlin  admits  she 
has  something  in  her  which  he  has  not  known 
before,  and  it  can  change  the  future.  She  begs 
Lanceor  to  tell  the  truth  because  she  thinks  that, 
when  confessed  with  a  kiss,  a  fault  is  a  truth 
"  more  beautiful  than  innocence  "  ;  if  he  confess, 
"  all  will  again  become  pure  as  it  was."  She 
knows  the  truth  about  her  lover  when  he  kissed 
another,  and  she  knows  because  she  loves.  Sorrows 
matter  nothing  when  they  lead  to  love,  says 
Merlin.  Nothing  matters  ;  yet  she  refuses  to  say 
anything  but  "No"  in  answer  to  Merlin's  persuasions 
that  she  should  look  and  catch  Lance'or  at  his 
infidelity.  When  Lance'or  lies  lifeless  she  feels 
that  "it  must  be  possible  to  give  life  to  those 
whom  we  love  better  than  ourselves."  Fate  itself, 
in  the  person  of  Merlin,  blushes  to  have  to  tempt 
such  a  one,  and  when  she  has  consented  to 
surrender  her  body  to  Merlin  to  save  her  lover 
she  wishes  at  once  to  tell  him.  And  when  she 


190  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

has  raised  the  dagger  to  strike  the  sleeping  seducer 
— even  though  she  strikes  a  vain  blow — Merlin 
pronounces  that  "she  has  conquered  fate  by 
listening  to  love."  There  is  but  one  qualification. 
When  Joyzelle  asks  whether  it  is  ordained  that 
love  should  strike  and  kill  what  is  in  its  way, 
Merlin  admits  ignorance  and  diffidence :  "  Let  us 
not  make  laws  with  a  few  scraps  picked  up  in 
the  darkness  that  surrounds  our  thoughts." 

Lanceor  is  nothing  but  a  creature  that  sins,  is 
wretched,  and  is  pardoned.  The  reason  of  his 
pardon  is  that,  in  sinning,  he  was  obeying  he  knows 
not  what ;  but  it  was  not  his  soul  that  sinned  ; 
in  fact,  while  he  was  sinning  "he  himself"  tries 
hard  to  resist,  but  he  heard  his  own  voice  and  saw 
his  own  body  betraying  him,  all  but  his  soul  being 
in  the  hands  of  a  mysterious  "  hostile  force."  This 
is  an  illustration  of  "  Mystic  Morality,"  but  the 
doctrine  is  not  strengthened  by  a  figure  so  unlike 
a  human  being. 

Merlin,  like  Shelley's  Jupiter,  is  the  helpless 
tool  of  some  higher  power  which  he  does  not 
understand,  and  not  only  helpless  but  regretful. 
Lanceor  sins,  but  explains  that  it  was  not  really 
himself.  Merlin  tortures  the  lovers,  but  in  the 
name  of  their  destiny  which  demands  it,  and  he 
asks  to  be  forgiven,  and  even  says,  like  his  son, 
"  It  is  not  I  that  speak."  He  resembles  the  ragged 
philosopher  who  chalks  up  on  his  barrel-organ  : 
"  Out  of  work  through  no  fault  of  my  own."  He 
has  thought  about  this  superior  power  of  which 
he  is  the  instrument  and  it  seems  to  him  that  it 


THREE  PLAYS  191 

demands  that  happiness  should  be  accompanied 
by  tears.  Whatever  it  is,  he  earns  the  pity  of  the 
lovers :  "He  was,"  says  Lanceor,  "  obliged  to 
make  us  suffer."  It  may  strike  us  as  an  excess 
of  fancy  and  humanitarianism  to  be  sorry  for  the 
fate  which  afflicts  us  because  there  is  a  power 
governing  that  fate  as  it  governs  us  ;  but  it  is  no 
more  than  the  logic  of  the  fatalism  coupled  with 
tenderness  that  are  so  characteristic  of  Maeterlinck. 
And  furthermore,  the  natures  of  these  persons,  all 
bodiless  and  invisible  as  Arielle — the  Prospero, 
Ferdinand,  Miranda  and  Ariel  of  an  island  off  the 
moon — should  ensure  a  toleration  in  the  reader 
as  sublime  as  Joyzelle's.  We  should  not  be  less 
astonished  had  Blake  written  a  play  to  illustrate 
the  words  : 

A  tear  is  an  intellectual  thing, 
And  a  sigh  is  the  sword  of  an  angel  king, 
And  the  bitter  groan  of  a  martyr's  woe 
Is  an  arrow  from  the  Almighty's  bow. 


XII 

"  LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES " 

LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES,"  published  in 
1901,  was  destined  to  great  popularity  in 
the  country  of  "  The  Complete  Angler,"  "  Selborne," 
"  Rural  Rides,"  "  Climbing  Plants,"  "  The  Amateur 
Poacher,"  and  "  A  Shepherd's  Life."  It  is  founded 
on  learning,  experience,  and  love ;  it  is  a  monu- 
ment of  eloquence  and  of  rural  felicity.  We 
have  books  which  are  all  these  things ;  but  we 
have  nothing  to  be  compared  with  "  La  vie  des 
Abeilles."  It  would  be  difficult,  indeed,  to  point 
to  books  in  any  literature  where  practice  and 
speculation  are  wrought  up  with  such  elaborate 
and  unpausing  art  into  a  whole  of  equal  size  and 
delicacy.  If  it  were  possible  to  have  "  Red  Deer  " 
composed  by  Sir  Thomas  Browne  in  the  mood  of 
"  Urn  Burial  "  we  should  have  a  companion  to 
"  La  Vie  des  Abeilles." 

It  is  not  a  monograph,  the  author  tells  us,  and 
he  has  even  reserved  his  mere  technical  notes  for 
another  book — which  has  yet  to  appear.  He  does 
not  offer  to  instruct  a  man  in  bee-keeping,  but  to 
repeat  most  of  what  is  known  of  bees  in  a  livelier 
192 


"LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES"  193 

manner  than  the  text-books,  and  to  add  his  own 
comments  and  conjectures.  He  will  not,  he  says, 
adorn  the  truth  by  false  invention.  Nevertheless, 
the  book  is  essentially  an  adornment  of  the  known 
truth  about  hive-bees.  It  is  a  piece  of  sustained 
eloquence,  which  has  for  its  subject-matter  what 
the  writer  has  seen  and  read  of  the  swarm,  the 
foundation  of  the  bee  city,  the  young  queens,  the 
nuptial  flight,  the  massacre  of  the  males,  the  pro- 
gress of  the  race  of  bees.  It  depends  not  upon 
discovery,  but  upon  a  presentation  of  facts  and 
opinions.  Like  the  "  Georgics,"  it  will  be  read 
and  loved  most  by  those  who  know  little  of  natural 
history.  Its  accuracy  is  but  a  small  part  at  most 
of  its  merit,  though  without  it  the  book  could  not 
have  entered  into  favour  with  pedants  and  a 
pedant-led  multitude.  It  is  addressed,  not  to  men 
of  science,  but  to  amateurs  and  readers  of  pictur- 
esque books  ;  and  in  "  La  Fondation  de  la  Cite  " 
he  apologizes  for  too  many  details  to  those  who 
"  may  never  have  followed  a  flight  of  bees,  or 
who  may  have  regarded  them  only  with  passing 
interest "  ;  though  this  may  be  the  irony  of  polite- 
ness. 

Though  he  desires  not  to  be  too  didactic,  it  can 
hardly  be  denied  that  the  book  is  aimed  deliber- 
ately and  consciously  throughout  at  a  public.  It 
is  not,  that  is  to  say,  a  masterpiece  that  has  grown 
up  naively  in  darkness.and  solitude  ;  and  the  author 
is  never  lost  in  his  subject,  but  remains,  with  all  his 
eloquence,  steadfastly  outside.  Take,  for  example, 
a  charming  passage  in  the  first  part,  "  Au  Seuil  de 
13 


194  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

la  Ruche,"  wherein  he  recalls  the  first  apiary  where 
he  learned  to  love  bees  : 

"  Ce'tait,  voila  des  annees,  dans  un  gros  village  de 
cette  Flandre  Zelandaise,  si  nette  et  si  gracieuse, 
qui,  plus  que  la  Ze"lande  meme,  miroir  concave  de 
la  Hollande,  a  concentre"  le  gout  des  couleurs 
vives,  et  caresse  des  yeux,  comme  de  jolis  et 
graves  jouets,  ses  pignons,  ses  tours  et  ses  chariots 
enlumines,  ses  armoires  et  ses  horloges  qui  reluisent 
au  fond  des  corridors,  ses  petits  arbres  alignes 
le  long  des  quais  et  des  canaux,  dans  1'attente, 
semble-t-il,  d'une  cer^monie  bienfaisante  et  nal've, 
ses  barques  et  ses  coches  d'eau  aux  poupes 
ouvragees  ;  ses  portes  et  ses  fen£tres  pareilles  a 
des  fleurs,  ses  ecluses  irreprochables,  ses  pont-levis 
minutieux  et  versicolores,  ses  maisonnettes  vernis- 
sees  comme  des  poteries  harmonieuses  et  e"clatantes 
d'ou  sortent  des  femmes  en  forme  de  sonnettes  et 
parees  d'or  et  d'argent  pour  aller  traire  les  vaches 
en  des  pres  entoure*s  de  barrieres  blanches,  ou 
etendre  le  linge  sur  le  tapis  decoupe  en  ovales  et 
en  losanges  et  meticuleusement  vert,  de  pelouses 
fleuries. 

"  Une  sorte  de  vieux  sage,  assez  semblable  au 
vieillard  de  Virgile : 

" '  Homme  egalant  les  rois,  homme  approchant  des  dieux, 
Et  comme  ces  derniers  satisfait  et  tranquille,' 

aurait  dit  La  Fontaine,  s'etait  retir^  la,  oil  la  vie 
semblerait  plus  etroite  qu'ailleurs,  s'il  etait  possible 
de  re"trecir  reellement  la  vie.  II  y  avait  e'leve'  son 
refuge,  non  de*goute — car  le  sage  ne  connait  point 
les  grands  dugouts — mais  un  peu  las  d'interroger 
les  hommes  qui  re"pondent  moins  simplement  que  les 
animaux  et  les  plantes  aux  ^eules  questions  in- 


"LA  VIE  DES   ABEILLES"  195 

teressantes  que  Ton  puisse  poser  &  la  nature  et  aux 
lois  veritables.  Tout  son  bonheur,  de  meme  que 
celui  du  philosophe  scythe,  consistait  aux  beautes 
d'un  jardin,  et  parmi  ces  beaut6s  la  mieux  aimee 
et  la  plus  visited  6tait  un  rucher,  compose"  de 
douze  cloches  de  paille  qu'il  avait  peintes,  les  unes 
de  rose  vif,  les  autres  de  jaune  clair,  la  plupart  d'un 
bleu  tendre,  car  il  avait  observe,  bien  avant  les 
experiences  de  Sir  John  Lubbock,  que  le  bleu  est 
la  couleur  preferee  des  abeilles.  II  avait  installe 
ce  rucher  centre  le  mur  blanchi  de  la  maison,  dans 
Tangle  que  formait  une  de  ces  savoureuses  et 
fraiches  cuisines  hollandaises  aux  dressoirs  de 
faience  ou  6tincelaient  les  etains  et  les  cuivres,  qui, 
par  la  porte  ouverte,  se  refletaient  dans  un  canal 
paisible.  Et  1'eau,  charged  d'images  familieres,  sous 
un  rideau  de  peuplier,  guidait  les  regards  jusqu'au 
repos  d'un  horizon  de  moulins  et  de  pres. 

"  En  ce  lieu,  comme  partout  ou  on  les  pose,  les 
ruches  avaient  donne  aux  fleurs,  au  silence,  a  la 
douceur  de  Tair,  aux  rayons  du  soleil,  une  signifi- 
cation nouvelle." 

It  reminds  us  of  Virgil,  ol  Statius,  of  Cowley, 
of  George  Borrow,  but  perhaps  of  Cowley  above 
all,  and  of  Borrow  least.  The  old  man  who  gave 
Borrow  an  excess  of  mead  in  his  gratitude  is  alive, 
in  a  manner  beyond  and  outside  of  Maeterlinck's  art 
The  sentiment  is  rather  that  of  Cowley's  essay  on 
gardens,  though  Maeterlinck's  is  the  Flemish  land- 
scape, as  precise  as  an  interior,  and  the  sage  who 
"  ne  connait  point  les  grands  degouts."  Only,  as  in 
Cowley's  prose,  we  feel  the  presence  of  literature 
in  the  passage  rather  than  of  life :  it  might  be 
pure  invention.  But  this  is  an  exceptional  passage. 


196  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

In  many  places  the  description  is  as  faithful  as  it 
is  minute  and  elaborate,  and  his  method  is  pro- 
bably the  only  one  that  could  combine  calm  exact- 
ness with  picturesqueness.  For  he  has  set  himself 
the  task  of  depicting,  for  the  first  time,  things  which 
few  have  seen  or  will  ever  see.  He  has  no  tradi- 
tion behind  him,  except  that  which  says  that  the 
bee  is  wonderful  for  industry  and  intelligence,  and 
that  the  comb  is  a  miracle.  Moreover,  his  own 
feeling,  enthusiastic  though  it  be,  is  scientific 
rather  than  human,  and  could  not  be  otherwise. 
The  mere  scale  of  the  hive  adds  yet  again  to  his 
handicap.  Yet  it  is  certain  that  he  often  shows 
himself  successful  as  well  as  faithful,  minute  and 
elaborate.  As  an  example,  I  will  give  the  page 
where  the  swarm  issues  from  the  hive  : 

"  On  dirait  que  toutes  les  portes  de  la  ville 
s'ouvrent  en  meme  temps  d'une  poussee  subite  et 
insense"e,  et  la  foule  noire  s'en  e"vade  ou  plutdt  en 
jaillit,  selon  le  nombre  des  ouvertures,  en  un 
double,  triple,  ou  quadruple  jet  direct,  tendu,  vibrant, 
et  ininterrompu  qui  fuse  et  s'evase  aussitot 
dans  1'espace  en  un  reseau  sonore  tissu  de  cent 
mille  ailes  exasperees  et  transparentes.  Pendant 
quelques  minutes,  le  reseau  flotte  ainsi  au-dessus 
du  ruche  dans  un  prodigieux  murmure  de  soieries 
diaphanes  que  mille  et  mille  doigts  e'lectrise's 
de"chireraient  et  recoudraient  sanscesse.  II  ondule, 
il  he"site,  il  palpite  comme  un  voile  d'all^gresse  que 
des  mains  invisibles  soutiendraient  dans  le  ciel  ou 
Ton  dirait  qu'elles  le  ploient  et  le  deploient  depuis 
les  fleurs  jusqu'a  1'azur,  en  attendant  une  arrivee 
ou  un  depart  auguste.  Enfin,  1'un  des  pans  se 


"LA  VIE   DES   ABEILLES"  197 

rabat,  un  autre  se  releve,  les  quatre  coins  pleins 
de  soleil  du  radieux  manteau  qui  chante,  se 
rejoignent,  et,  pareil  a  1'une  de  ces  nappes  intelli- 
gentes  qui  pour  accomplir  un  souhait  traversent 
1'horizon  dans  les  contes  de  f6es,  il  se  dirige  tout 
entier  et  deja  replie\  afin  de  recouvrir  la  presence 
sacr^e  de  1'avenir,  vers  le  tilleul,  le  poirier,  ou  le 
saule,  ou  la  reine  vient  de  se  fixer  comme  un  clou 
d'or  auquel  il  accroche  une  a  une  ses  ondes 
musicales,  et  autour  duquel  il  enroule  son  etofife 
de  perles  tout  illumined  d'ailes." 

Here  he  possesses  the  advantage  of  relating  a 
matter  not  quite  unfamiliar  and  not  without  a 
prestige  of  its  own.  Where  he  is  describing  what 
is  usually  hidden,  what  is  also  silent  and  still,  he 
has  need  of  humanizing  comparisons  and  of  his 
own  eloquence.  These  are  successful  in  such 
places  as  the  following,  where  the  hive  is  de- 
scribed after  a  swarm  has  departed  : 

"  Mais  si  le  present  parait  morne,  tout  ce  que 
1'ceil  rencontre  est  peuple  d'esperances.  Nous 
sommes  dans  un  de  ces  chateaux  des  legendes 
allemandes  oil  les  murs  sont  formes  de  milliers  de 
fioles  qui  contiennent  les  ames  des  hommes  qui 
vont  naitre.  Nous  sommes  dans  le  sejour  de  la 
vie  qui  precede  la  vie.  II  y  a  la,  de  toutes  parts  en 
suspens  dans  les  berceaux  bien  clos,  dans  la 
superposition  infinie  des  merveilleux  alveoles  a  six 
pans,  des  myriades  de  nymphes,  plus  blanches  que 
le  lait,  qui,  les  bras  replies  et  la  tete  inclined  sur  la 
poitrine,  attendent  1'heure  du  re1  veil.  A  les  voir 
dans  leurs  sepultures  uniformes,  innombrables  et 
presque  transparentes,  on  dirait  des  gnomes  chenus 


198  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

qui  meditent,  ou  des  legions  de  vierges  deform^es 
par  les  plis  du  suaire,  et  ensevelies  en  des  prismes 
hexagones  multiplies  jusqu'au  de"lire  par  un 
geometre  inflexible." 

In  the  whole,  and  especially  in  "jusqu'au  delire," 
we  are  reminded  of  the  castles  of  the  early  plays  ; 
and  there  is  a  promise  of  the  scene  of  the  unborn 
in  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu."  Human  comparisons  abound 
of  necessity.  The  queen-bee  gnawing  the  lid  of 
her  cell  to  escape  is  a  "princess"  reducing  "the 
walls  of  her  tower"  but  thwarted  from  without 
by  an  "  enchanted  obstacle."  The  accepted  queen 
and  the  unborn  others  are  "  the  wandering  queen 
and  the  virgins  in  prison."  To  make  the  cry  of 
the  queens  more  impressive,  it  is  contrasted  with 
night  and  the  hushing  of  noises  and  even  "the 
silence  of  the  stars."  The  hairy  humble-bee  forc- 
ing its  way  into  a  flower  is  compared  with  "  a 
cave-bear  that  might  have  forced  its  way  into  the 
silken,  pearl-bestrewn  tent  of  a  Byzantine  princess." 
Such  comparisons  are  characteristic.  When  the 
dawn  is  being  swallowed  up  in  full  day  it  is  "  like 
a  maiden  caught  in  the  arms  of  a  heavy  warrior  " — 
"  a  naked  maiden,"  says  the  original.  This  is  from 
the  book  devoted  to  the  nuptial  flight  of  the  queen 
bee.  It  is  a  celebrated  piece,  but  it  is  necessary  to 
quote  part  of  it — where  the  queen  emerges  from 
the  hive  not  long  after  dawn  : 

"  Elle  part  comme  un  trait  au  zenith  de 
1'azur.  Elle  gagne  ainsi  des  hauteurs  et  une  zone 
lumineuse  que  les  autres  abeilles  n'affrontent  a 


"LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES"  199 

aucune  epoque  de  leur  vie.  Au  loin,  autour  des 
fleurs  ou  flotte  leur  paresse,  les  males  ont  aper?u 
1'apparition  et  respire"  le  parfum  magn^tique  qui  se 
r^panddeprocheen  prochejusqu'aux  ruchers  voisins. 
Aussitot  les  hordes  se  rassemblent  et  plongent  a  sa 
suite  dans  la  mer  d'allegresse  dont  les  bornes  lim- 
pides  se  de'placent.  Elle,  ivre  de  ses  ailes,  et 
ob&ssant  a  la  magnifique  loi  de  1'espece  qui  choisit 
pour  elle  son  amant  et  vent  que  le  plus  fort  1'atteigne 
seul  dans  la  solitude  de  Tether,  elle  monte  toujours, 
et  1'air  bleu  du  matin  s'engouffre  pour  la  premiere 
fois  dans  ses  stigmates  abdominaux  et  chante  comme 
le  sang  du  ciel  dans  les  mille  radicelles  reliees  aux 
deux  sacs  tracheens  qui  occupent  la  moitie  de  son 
corps  et  se  nourrissent  de  Tespace.  Elle  monte  tou- 
jours. II  faut  qu'elle  atteigne  une  region  d^serte  que 
ne  hantent  plus  les  oiseaux  qui  pourraient  troubler 
le  mystere.  Elle  s'eleve  encore,  et  deja  la  troupe 
inegale  diminue  et  s'egrene  sous  elle.  Les  faibles, 
les  infirmes,  les  vieillards,  les  mal  venus,  les  mal 
nourris  des  cit£s  inactives  ou  miserables,  renoncent 
a  la  poursuite  et  disparaissent  dans  le  vide.  II  ne 
reste  plus  en  suspens,  dans  1'opale  infinie,  qu'un 
petit  groupe  infatigable.  Elle  demande  un  dernier 
effort  a  ses  ailes,  et  voici  que  1'elu  des  forces  incom- 
prehensibles  la  rejoint,  la  saisit,  la  penetre  et,  qu  'em- 
port^e  d'un  double  elan,  la  spirale  ascendante  de 
leur  vol  enlace  tourbillonne  une  seconde  dans  le 
delire  hostile  de  I'amour." 

Here  the  endeavour  to  recommend  a  small 
matter  by  exaggeration  is  fatal.  I  do  not  mean 
that  the  nuptial  flight  of  a  bee  is  insignificant,  but 
that  it  is  small  in  scale  when  compared  with  the 
acts  of  men  or  with  the  depths  of  the  air  in  which 
it  takes  place.  I  believe  that  it  would  be  possible 


200  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

to  convey  something  of  the  grandeur  of  the 
miniature  event  without  altogether  destroying  the 
scale :  a  naturalist  like  Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson — if 
there  were  one  like  him— would  not  fail  were  he 
to  attempt  it,  and  he  would  leave  us  no  thoughts 
but  of  the  immortal  little  insect  and  the  wild  air 
Does  Maeterlinck  give  us  a  thought  or  a  vision 
of  the  bee  and  the  summer  air?  If  he  does,  its 
effect  is  faint  in  the  mind  when  compared  with 
that  of  the  eloquence  simply  as  eloquence.  It 
brings  before  me,  not  so  much  the  bee,  as  the  poet 
admiring  the  bee.  But  this,  if  true,  is  not  to 
condemn  the  passage  or  the  book.  "  Comus " 
does  not  give  one  direct  fragrance  of  the  earth, 
yet  is  it  the  loveliest  pastoral  verse.  "  La  Vie 
des  Abeilles"  has  not  the  same  excuse  as  "Comus." 
It  begins  and  ends  upon  an  every-day  plane,  and 
its  backbone  is  instruction  or  description  of 
natural  facts,  and  the  perfect  book  of  this  kind 
would  be  one  without  obvious  art.  Maeterlinck's 
is  not  such  a  book:  let  us  remember  here,  again, 
that  it  is  an  adornment,  a  gorgeous  apparelling,  of 
the  truth  ;  and,  having  done  so,  it  is  not  permissible 
to  object  to  the  eloquent  description  of  the  nuptial 
flight  except  on  the  ground  that  it  exceeds  the 
limits  of  its  own  kind.  This,  I  think,  it  does. 
The  epithets  "  tragic  "  and  "  prodigious,"  applied 
to  these  nuptials,  are  more  applicable  to  the 
description  itself.  When  he  speaks  of  the  queen 
descending  from  the  "  azure  heights  "  trailing,  "  like 
an  oriflamme,  the  unfolded  entrails  of  her  lover," 
I  see  a  magnifying  glass  and  an  exuberant  voca- 


"LA  VIE   DES   ABEILLES"  201 

bulary  which  is  exposed  still  more  by  the  quiet 
tone  of  the  succeeding  sentences  relating  how  he 
has  often  watched  the  return  of  the  queen  and 
never  noticed  any  unusual  emotion.  Nor  can 
Maeterlinck's  eloquence  cease,  but  must  revive 
again  and  again,  to  exclaim,  for  example  : 

"  Voila  de  prodigieuses  noces,  les  plus  f6eriques 
que  nous  puissions  rever,  azur6es  et  tragiques, 
emportees  par  l'e"lan  du  d^sir  au-dessus  de  la  vie, 
foudroyantes  et  imperissables,  uniques  et  e"blouis- 
santes,  solitaires  et  infinies.  Voila  d'admirables 
ivresses  ou  la  mort,  survenue  dans  ce  qu'il  y  a  de 
plus  limpide  et  de  plus  beau  autour  de  cette  sphere  : 
1'espace  virginal  et  sans  bornes,  fixe  dans  la  trans- 
parence auguste  du  grand  ciel  la  secondc  du 
bonheur,  purifie  dans  la  lumiere  immaculee  ce 
que  1'amour  a  toujours  d'un  peu  miserable,  rend 
inoubliable  le  baiser,  et  se  contentant  cette  fois 
d'une  dime  indulgente,  de  ses  mains  devenues 
maternelles,  prend  elle-me'me  le  soin  d'introduire 
et  d'unir  pour  un  long  avenir  inseparable,  dans  un 
seul  et  meme  corps,  deux  petites  vies  fragiles." 

In  a  passage  which  follows  this  Maeterlinck 
shows  that  he  is  well  aware  of  what  he  has  done. 
"  Profound  truth,"  he  says,  has  not  the'  poetry  of 
the  above  passage,  but  it  has  another  which  in 
the  end  we  may  equally  understand  and  love. 
His  excuse  for  rejoicing  in  regions  "  loftier  than 
the  truth" — which  he  admits  to  be  impossible — 
is  that  the  truths  we  perceive  are  but  small  and 
fragmentary :  therefore  "  should  any  motive  what- 


202  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

ever  cause  an  object  to  reveal  itself  to  us  in  a 
more  beautiful  light  than  to  others,  let  that  motive 
be  first  of  all  dear  to  us."  To  admit  and  dwell 
upon  the  physical  fact  of  these  nuptials,  and  upon 
this  alone,  would,  he  thinks,  be  to  content  ourselves 
with  less  truth  than  if  we  saw  only  what  is  vulgarly 
called  the  "  poetry "  of  this  "  lyrical  "  act.  This 
passage  is  excellent  criticism,  and  it  would  excuse 
"poetry"  far  more  extravagant  than  anything  in 
"  La  Vie  des  Abeilles."  What  it  does  not  excuse 
is  writing  which  gives  an  impression  of  words 
instead  of  things,  of  methods  instead  of  results, 
and  such  writing  is  common  in  the  lyrical 
descriptions  of  "  Le  Vol  Nuptial." 

This  fault  may  spring  from  an  inability  to  keep 
the  eyes  loyally  upon  a  physical  object,  and  a 
willingness  to  turn  aside  too  soon,  to  think  and 
feel  "about  it  and  about."  Maeterlinck  can 
describe  still  or  inanimate  things,  forests,  great 
waters,  caves,  castles,  precious  stones,  but  of  living 
things  he  sees  chiefly  the  soul,  and  his  bodies  are 
misty  things,  like  the  Arielle  in  "Joyzelle."  And 
what  pleases  him  chiefly  in  the  bee  is  its  intelli- 
gence— its  possessing  somewhat  of  that  power 
which,  as  he  says,  transfigures  necessity  and 
organizes  life.  He  compares  it  often  with  man, 
excusing  it  when  some  deliberate  human  experi- 
ment deceives  it  by  asking  if  man  would  be  more 
successful  if  a  corresponding  higher  power  set  out 
to  deceive  him  ;  again,  when  zeal  in  collecting  for 
the  hive  leads  the  bee  into  disaster,  he  pronounces 
that  such  disinterested  "  follies  "  in  men  are  called 


"LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES"  203 

by  another  name  ;  and  in  his  conclusion  he 
estimates  the  achievement  of  the  bee  as  above 
that  of  man,  and  says  that  if  a  visitor  from  another 
world  were  to  ask  for  the  "  most  perfect  creation 
of  the  logic  of  life  "  on  earth  we  should  be  bound 
to  show  a  honeycomb.  This  is  a  vain  extravagance 
of  comparison,  but  certainly  the  bee  has  led 
Maeterlinck  to  some  admirable  and  some  character- 
istic thought.  For  example,  he  shows  how  rash 
it  is  to  condemn  the  bees  from  our  exterior  observa- 
tion by  supposing  an  onlooker  from  another  world 
watching  us.  Such  a  one,  he  points  out,  with 
irony  like  that  of  the  author  of  "  Erewhon,"  would 
conclude,  from  the  fact  that  those  who  performed 
the  heaviest  toil  dwelt  in  the  worst  hovels,  that 
labour  was  a  punishable  offence  upon  the  earth, 
and  that,  in  spite  of  their  offence  and  its  punish- 
ment, they  remained  inoffensive  and  content  to 
have  the  leavings  of  the  rest  of  mankind  who 
are  evidently  "  the  guardians,  if  not  the  saviours 
of  the  race."  This  thought  was  evidently  strong 
in  Maeterlinck's  mind  when  he  wrote  the  book, 
for  he  repeats  it  with  very  little  variation  at  the 
end :  he  imagines  an  outside  observer — a  bee — 
watching  us  and  seeing  the  earth  "  insufficiently 
and  painfully"  cultivated  by  two  or  three  tenths 
of  the  human  race ;  seven-tenths  labouring  to 
make  the  life  of  the  idle  remaining  tenth  "  more 
complex  and  more  inexplicable."  Such  an 
observer  might  conclude  that  our  reason  and  moral 
sense  were  different  from  his  and  obeyed  incompre- 
hensible principles.  Himself  looking  upon  man 


204  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

as  he  has  done  upon  the  bee,  Maeterlinck  sees  in 
us  creatures  made  to  produce  thought,  reason, 
spirit,  or  the  power  we  know  by  these  and  many 
other  names :  he  sees  it  is  our  first  duty  to  do 
everything  necessary  to  develop  this  power,  and 
concludes  the  book  with  praise  of  this  power  as 
containing  within  itself  the  solution  of  all : 

"  Nourrissons-la  de  nos  sentiments,  de  nos 
passions,  de  tout  ce  qui  se  voit,  se  sent,  s'entend,  se 
touche,  et  de  sa  propre  essence  qui  est  1'idee  qu'elle 
tire  des  de"couvertes,  des  experiences,  des  observa- 
tions qu'elle  rapporte  de  tout  ce  qu'elle  visite.  II 
arrive  alors  un  moment  ou  tout  se  tourne  si 
naturellement  a  bien  pour  un  esprit  qui  s'est  soumis 
a  la  bonne  volonte  du  devoir  reellement  humain, 
que  le  soup^on  meme  que  les  efforts  ou  il  s'evertue 
sont  peut-£tre  sans  but,  rend  encore  plus  claire, 
plus  pure,  plus  desinte'resse'e,  plus  inde'pendante  et 
plus  noble  1'ardeur  de  sa  recherche." 

Curious  is  this  power  of  seeing  mankind  on  so 
small  a  scale  as  if  it  were  no  more  than  a  foetus  ; 
it  is  the  writing  of  a  god  and  not  of  a  man.  And 
yet  he  is  no  more  than  a  man  gifted  with  an 
extremity  of  consciousness,  who  sees  "  the  extra- 
ordinary fluid  we  call  life"  animating  us  and  the 
rest  of  the  world,  producing  "  the  very  thoughts 
that  judge  it,  and  the  feeble  voice  that  attempts  to 
tell  its  story."  He  sees  men  as  part  of  Nature, 
yet  with  that  in  them  which  seems  to  make  their 
best  achievements  something  apart  from  Nature 
and  in  spite  of  it,  though  he  admits  the  possibility 


"LA  VIE   DES   ABEILLES"  205 

that  our  development  may  have  no  other  purpose 
than  to  "amuse  the  darkness."  This  does  not 
alarm  him.  The  destiny  of  man,  to  develop  the 
power  known  as  reason  or  spirit,  gives  him  such 
pride  that  nothing  terrible  can  turn  him  aside — 
not  the  malice  or  stupidity  of  Nature.  All  that 
we  have  achieved  we  have  done  for  ourselves,  he 
says  almost  in  the  words  of  Richard  Jefferies ;  we 
are  alone  and  we  advance.  Everywhere  he  sees  a 
morality  utterly  different  from  our  own,  yet  Nature 
seems  to  him  less  terrible  than  it  was,  and  the 
names  "Nature,"  "life,"  "death,"  "spirit  of  the 
race,"  etc.,  are  less  menacing  than  were  "  God," 
"  Providence,"  "  reward,"  etc.  Nature  is  less 
terrible,  and,  though  still  foreign,  she  is  not  to 
be  thought  of  as  merely  hostile  or  indifferent. 
Out  of  her  chaos  a  greater  wisdom  may  come. 
With  his  ear  towards  her  great  voices,  some  human 
things  sound  weak  and  untrue.  All  knowledge, 
everything  that  is  a  gain  to  this  distinguishing 
power  of  man,  is  good,  and  he  pictures  a  sage  at 
once  probing  deep  in  the  immorality  of  life  yet 
himself  living  by  "the  most  humanly  beautiful 
truth,"  and  this  also  is  "  as  profoundly  natural " 
as  everything  else  ;  and  herein  he  returns  by  the 
way  he  came  and  falls  spent,  like  many  another, 
upon  the  infinite. 

But  if  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles "  is  even  more 
remarkable  as  a  chapter  in  the  spiritual  auto- 
biography of  a  characteristic  man  of  the  age  than 
as  a  history  of  the  bee,  its  vivacity  and  accuracy 
as  history  must  not  be  forgotten.  This  age  has 


206  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

complained  again  and  again  that  science  is  a  dead 
and  death-dealing  thing  :  books  that  are  mortuaries 
and  ossuaries  have  wearied  us.  "  La  Vie  des 
Abeilles"  is  one  of  the  replies  to  this  complaint. 
Only  time  can  pronounce  whether  it  has  triumphed 
by  life  or  by  the  galvanism  of  consummate  and 
even  unconscious  artifice,  but  at  least  it  is  a  tem- 
porary classic.  Dealing  with  what  used  to  be 
called  "  the  wonders  of  creation,"  it  is  written  to 
glorify  not  so  much  the  creator  as  the  creature. 
Its  prejudices  are  slight  or  transparent,  yet  it  is 
dominated  by  the  note  of  an  intensely  personal 
artist.  It  can  inform  and  delight  at  once,  or  it 
can  inform  without  delighting  or  delight  without 
informing,  according  to  the  reader's  taste  :  that  is 
to  say,  it  is  not  obviously  a  work  of  instruction  or 
of  diversion.  In  spite  of  the  author,  it  is,  however, 
a  treatise  in  disguise — in  the  harmless  disguise  of 
the  author's  personality.  It  aims,  probably  in 
all  unconsciousness,  at  showing  that  a  modern 
naturalist  can  be  as  marvellous  and  readable  as 
an  ancient  one,  and  with  a  fidelity  equalling  his 
infidelity.  It  is  never  dull  or  obscure  ;  it  is,  in  fact, 
always  lively  and  brilliant,  and  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  Maeterlinck  will  consent  to  be  less  so,  if  he 
ever  writes  the  "  more  technical  work  "  of  which 
he  speaks.  It  is  without  contemporary  rival  in  its 
own  kind  whether  among  books  on  the  bee  or 
among  natural  histories  in  general,  for  no  other 
writer  of  comparable  power  has  concentrated 
himself  upon  one  subject  in  the  same  imagina- 
tive spirit.  It  would  be  hard  to  overpraise  it 


"LA  VIE  DES  ABEILLES"  207 

except  by  saying,  as  Maeterlinck  refuses  to  say  of 
Buchner's  essay,  that  it  "  smells  of  the  bee."  It 
smells  of  belles  lettres,  and  while  it  is  one  of  the 
most  delicate  in  this  class,  it  is  also  honourable 
among  books  of  science  and  deserving  of  as 
much  imitation  as  honour. 


XIII 

"LE  TEMPLE   ENSEVELI  " 

IN  1902,  a  year  after  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles  "  and 
four  years  after  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destined," 
appeared  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli."  Like  "  Le  Tresor 
des  Humbles  "  it  is  divided  into  distinct  but  related 
chapters,  having,  as  titles,  "  La  Justice,"  "  L'E volu- 
tion du  Mystere,"  "La  Regne  de  la  Matiere,"  "Le 
Passe,"  "  La  Chance,"  "  L'Avenir."  Of  these  "  Le 
Passd "  and  "La  Chance"  were  written  in  1901, 
and  the  others  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review  in  1899  and  1900,  while  only  one  chapter 
of  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles  "  had  been  separately  pub- 
lished. Maeterlinck's  popularity  was  increasing; 
he  must  have  begun  to  feel  that  a  public  lay 
delighted  and  expectant  about  the  waters  that 
flowed,  full  of  tranquillity  and  refreshment,  from 
his  fountain-pen.  Whether  for  this  reason,  or 
because  he  was  gaining  in  maturity,  his  manner 
was  changing.  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli "  begins 
with  the  words  "  Je  parle  pour  ceux  qui  ne  croient 
pas  a  1'existence  d'un  juge  unique."  He  speaks 
with  a  certain  confidence,  if  not  authority.  His 
style  has  less  silence  as  well  as  fewer  dots  than  it 
208 


"LE  TEMPLE   ENSEVELI  "  209 

had  in  "  Le  Tre'sor,"  and  probably  few  strangers  to 
Maeterlinck's  development  could  see  in  "Trois 
petits  Drames  pour  Marionnettes  "  and  "  Le  Temple 
Enseveli  "  the  work  of  one  and  the  same  man,  if 
it  had  not  been  that  "  L'  Evolution  du  Mystere  " 
contains  some  criticism  of  the  early  plays.  The 
early  essays  were  addressed  more  to  the  uncon- 
sciousness than  to  the  reason,  and  they  demon- 
strated nothing.  They  were  likely  to  stir  and 
encourage  those  who  were  not  afraid  or  ashamed 
of  mist  and  uncertainty :  they  were  certain  to  be 
treated  as  sacramental  by  coteries  and  to  be 
brusquely  ridiculed  by  the  "  no  nonsense  "  school. 
"  Le  Temple  Enseveli "  is  different.  It  addresses 
everybody  and  not  merely  kindred  souls,  and  it  does 
not  avoid  the  intelligence.  It  says  everything, 
and  there  is  no  undertone  of  silence.  It  is  a  work 
of  pure  intelligence :  intuition  and  pretence  of 
intuition  are  absent,  and  if  that  bevy  of  pre- 
destine'd  school-fellows  was  mentioned  in  it  we 
should  expect  to  hear  that  50  per  cent,  were 
still  living  and  that  the  'others  were  not  to  be 
traced. 

The  manner  alone  has  changed.  Maeterlinck's 
mind  is  occupied  or  obsessed  by  the  same  thoughts, 
but  his  curiosity  and  desire  to  investigate  have 
increased.  If  he  speaks  with  more  firmness  and 
confidence  it  is  not  because  he  knows  more,  but 
because  he  is  older  and  less  pathetic  and  less  easily 
disturbed.  His  self-consciousness  is  the  same. 
At  the  end  of  the  chapter  on  the  young  queens 
in  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles "  he  reminds  us,  with  a 
14 


zio  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

touch  of  his  earlier  mystery,  that  we  who  judge 
this  "  extraordinary  fluid "  of  life  are  ourselves 
animated  by  it,  like  the  friendly  and  indifferent 
and  hostile  forms  round  about  us  ;  and  now  again 
in  "  La  Justice "  he  comes  to  an  unanswerable 
question,  saying  that  we  ourselves  "  form  part  of 
the  mystery  we  seek  to  solve."  Man,  now  as  a 
part  of  Nature,  and  now  as  distinct  from  Nature, 
is  his  never-forgotten  subject. 

His  way  of  thinking  is  in  the  main  and  in  many 
details  like  that  of  Richard  Jefferies  in  "  The  Story 
of  my  Heart."  In  the  ninth  chapter  of  that  book 
and  onwards  Jefferies  asseverates  that  "  in  human 
affairs  everything  happens  by  chance  ;  that  is,  in 
defiance  of  human  ideas,  and  without  any  direction 
of  an  intelligence."  This  gives  him  ground  for 
hope,  because  "  if  the  present  condition  of  things 
were  ordered  by  a  superior  power,  there  would  be 
no  possibility  of  improving  it  for  the  better  in 
spite  of  that  power,"  and  so,  "  acknowledging  that 
no  such  direction  exists,  all  things  become  plastic 
to  our  will."  Nothing,  he  says,  has  been  done 
for  us  in  the  past ;  nothing  will  be  done.  Man 
has  made  the  good,  and  he  is  responsible  for  the 
evil  ;  he  can  prevent  disease,  misery,  and  perhaps 
death ;  but  he  has  idled  and  malingered.  We 
must  now  deliberately  begin  "  to  roll  back  the  tide 
of  death,  and  to  set  our  faces  steadily  to  the  future 
of  life,"  and  he  exhorts  every  one  "  to  do  their 
utmost  to  think  outside  and  beyond  our  present 
circle  of  ideas."  And  he  does  not  believe  in  the 
reason  alone. 


"LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI"  an 

"  Often,"  he  says,  "  I  have  argued  with  myself 
that  such  and  such  a  course  was  the  right  one  to 
follow,  while  in  the  intervals  of  thinking  about  it 
an  undercurrent  of  unconscious  impulse  has  desired 
me  to  do  the  reverse  or  to  remain  inactive,  and 
sometimes  it  has  happened  that  the  supersensuous 
reasoning  has  been  correct,  and  the  most  faultless 
argument  wrong.  I  presume  this  supersensuous 
reasoning,  proceeding  independently  in  the  mind, 
arises  from  perceptions  too  delicate  for  analysis." 

These  things  are  the  stuff  also  of  Maeterlinck's 
thought.  He  is  more  careful  and  subtle  ;  Jefferies 
is  more  forcible  and  passionate,  writing  "  as  a  dying 
man  to  dying  men." 

Maeterlinck  is  not  quite  able  to  decide  which  is 
more  important,  that  man  is  part  of  Nature,  or  that 
man  has  separated  and  fenced  himself  against 
Nature.  As  in  "  Monna  Vanna  "  he  makes  Marco 
say  that  "  Life  is  right,"  so  in  "  La  Justice  "  he  says 
that  "the  lake  is  right"  and  not  the  "curious 
incident "  of  the  fountain  which  man  causes  it  to 
feed.  He  feels  that  what  we  call  justice  is  ours 
and  ours  alone,  saying  that  our  bodies  were  made 
for  the  earth,  as  our  minds  were  made  for  justice, 
and  that  this  human  justice  is  opposed  to  instincts 
planted  in  us  by  nature.  But  he  knows  also  that 
this  justice  is  equally  "  natural."  He  looks  on 
benevolently  at  Nature's  cruelty  and  injustice,  not 
knowing  whether  she  be  "just  or  unjust"  from  a 
universal  point  of  view,  and  therefore  not  con- 
demning her ;  but  we  are  not  to  imitate  her — our 
only  safety  is  in  human  justice.  The  individual 


212  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

man  is  opposed  to  Nature,  to  his  own  natural 
instincts,  and  also  at  many  points  to  his  own 
species,  which  is  like  "  the  great  unerring  lake  "  of 
the  comparison  just  mentioned.  He  is  not  dis- 
turbed even  by  "  the  probable  futility  "  of  mankind 
in  the  history  of  the  solar  system.  Sadly  but 
eloquently  he  writes  : 

"  Laissons  la  force  regner  dans  1'univers  et 
requite"  dans  notre  coeur.  Si  la  race  est  irre"sistible- 
ment  et,  je  pense,  justement  injuste,  si  la  foule  m£me 
parait  avoir  des  droits  que  n'a  pas  1'homme  isole', 
et  commet  parfois  de  grands  crimes  inevitables  et 
salutaires,  le  devoir  de  chaque  individu  dans  la 
race,  le  devoir  de  tout  homme  dans  la  foule,  est  de 
demeurer  juste  au  centre  de  toute  la  conscience 
qu'il  parvient  a  r^unir  et  a  maintenir  en  lui-meme. 
Nous  n'aurons  qualit6  pour  abandonner  ce  devoir 
que  lorsque  nous  saurons  toutes  les  raisons  de  la 
grande  injustice  apparente ;  et  celles  qu'on  nous 
donne  :  la  conservation  de  1'espece,  la  reproduction 
et  la  selection  des  plus  forts,  des  plus  habiles  et 
des  '  mieux  adapted/  ne  sont  pas  suffisantes  a 
determiner  un  changement  si  effroyable.  Certes, 
chacun  de  nous  doit  tacher  d'etre  le  plus  fort,  le 
plus  habile,  et  de  s'adapter  le  mieux  possible  aux 
necessites  de  la  vie  qu'il  ne  peut  transformer ;  mais 
a  conside"rer  les  quality's  qui  le  font  vaincre,  mani- 
festant  sa  puissance  morale  et  son  intelligence,  et 
le  rendent  re'ellement  heureux,  le  plus  habile,  le 
plus  fort,  et  le  '  mieux  adapte,'  c'est  jusqu'ici  le 
plus  humain,  le  plus  honnete  et  le  plus  juste." 

Like  Jefferies,  he  is  struck  by  the  fact  that  a 
just  man  drowns  as  easily  as  an  unjust ;  like 


"LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI  "  2!3 

Jefferies,  he  inclines  not  to  call  poverty  an  irre- 
mediable ill,  and  asks  if  it  is  not  we  men  who 
condemn  "  three-fourths  of  mankind  "  to  misery. 
But  even  as  to  storms  and  the  like,  he  believes 
that  he  has  found  a  human  power  of  foreknowing 
them :  he  asserts  in  "  La  Chance"  that  most  ships, 
trains,  mines,  and  factories,  when  destroyed, 
contain  fewer  persons  than  is  usual  with  them 
on  days  of  no  danger.  Not  that  he  believes  the 
mind  of  man  constructed  to  forecast  the  future, 
for  he  says  himself  that,  when  attempting  to  do  so, 
it  can  rarely  produce  anything  "  very  salutary  or 
very  enduring."  Maeterlinck  sees  two  very  dif- 
ferent facts,  and,  instead  of  harmonizing  them, 
he  draws  attractive,  but  perhaps  incompatible, 
conclusions  from  both.  In  the  same  way  he  bids 
us  in  one  place  to  labour  to  improve  our  standing 
in  this  indifferent  universe ;  and  in  another  seeks 
to  discover  an  unlucky  race  : 


"  ils  prennent  infailliblement  le  train  qui  derail- 
lera,  passent  a  1'heure  voulue  sous  la  tour  qui 
s'e'croule,  entrent  dans  la  maison  ou  deja  le  feu 
couve,  traversent  la  foret  que  1'eclair  va  percer, 
portent  ce  qu'ils  possedent  au  banquier  qui  va  fuir, 
font  le  pas  et  le  geste  qu'il  ne  fallait  point  faire, 
aiment  la  seule  femme  qu'ils  eussent  dti  eviter. 
Au  rebours,  s'il  s'agit  de  bonheur,  lorsque  accourent 
les  autres,  attire's  par  la  voix  profonde  des  forces 
bienveillantes,  ils  passent  sans  1'entendre,  et  jamais 
preVenus,  Iivr6s  aux  seuls  conseils  de  leur  intelli- 
gence, le  vieux  guide,  tres  sage  mais  a  peu  pres 
aveugle,  qui  ne  connait  que  les  petits  sentiers  au 


2i4  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

pied  de  la  montagne,  ils  s'e"garent  dans  un  monde 
que  la  raison  humaine  n'a  pas  encore  compris." 

These  men,  he  says  with  characteristic  refine- 
ment, have  a  right  to  complain  against  destiny, 
because  they  have  not  been  given  the  instinct 
which  could  have  preserved  them  ;  but,  he  adds, 
"  the  universe  is  not  hostile  to  them.  Calamities 
do  not  pursue  them  ;  it  is  they  who  go  towards 
calamity."  For  he  assumes  that  these  people  are 
guided  solely  by  intellect,  and  not  by  instinct. 
But  this  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  and  cases  might 
be  brought  forward  to  show  that  many  who  perish 
in  accidents  were  never  in  one  before  in  the 
course  of  lives  which  may  have  been  long,  or 
fortunate,  or  both  ;  and  that,  of  those  who  avoid 
fatal  or  great  accidents,  many  have  met  countless 
little  ones  or  have  been  wretched  without  a  single 
definable  misfortune  except  that  of  birth.  But 
Maeterlinck  still  allows  some  power  to  what  he 
calls  chance,  and  to  the  superiority  of  intellect 
to  instinct  or  unconsciousness  upon  occasion. 
Like  Jefferies,  he  believes  that  this  unconsciousness 
may  be  developed.  He  suggests  that  "  the  history 
of  our  fortune  is  the  history  of  our  unconscious 
being,"  and  that  this  belief  is  more  encouraging 
than  the  old  one  that  the  stars,  for  example,  were 
interested  in  our  lives.  It  would  thus  be  a  "  proud 
consolation  "  in  the  direst  misfortunes,  he  thinks, 
to  know  that  they  come  from  within  and  that 
they  were  "  perhaps  only  recording  the  necessary 
form  of  our  own  personality."  If  only,  he  seems 


11  LE  TEMPLE   ENSEVELI"  215 

to  believe,  if  only  we  could  be  certain  that  an 
event  was  necessary  we  should  not  suffer  by  it ; 
but  at  present  this  is  far  from  being  universally 
true.  His  conclusion  to  this  very  cunning  essay 
on  luck  reminds  us  altogether  of  Jefferies  in  its 
appeal  to  men  to  follow  all  paths  leading  "  from 
our  consciousness  to  our  unconsciousness,"  because 
the  secret  of  life  lies  hidden  at  the  end  of  those 
paths. 

This  same  power  of  man  to  control  events  is 
the  chief  subject  of  the  essay  on  the  past.  He 
touches  no  questionable  matter,  but  is  content  to 
point  out  that  our  past,  or  its  practical  value  and 
effect,  depends  upon  what  we  are  and  is  inevitably 
changed  by  this;  and  what  now  produces  this  change 
without  our  voluntary  co-operation  or  conscious 
knowledge  can  at  last,  he  trusts,  be  counted  among 
the  faculties  to  be  commanded  and  not  obeyed  by 
man.  If  a  man  controls  his  past  to-day  he  does 
not  know  how  it  is  done,  while  very  many  are 
controlled  by  it  in  such  a  way  that  it  is  above 
all  their  other  gods.  Maeterlinck  says  that  we 
should  consult  the  past  only  when  we  are  strong  ; 
we  should  choose  from  it  and  forbid  the  rest 
"  never  to  cross  our  threshold "  except  under 
command.  A  characteristic  winged  passage  follows 
about  the  past : 

"  Com  me  tout  ce  qui  ne  vit  en  somme  qu'aux 
depens  de  notre  force  spirituelle,  il  prendra  tot 
1'habitude  d'obeir.  Peut-etre  essayera-t-il  d'abord 
de  resister.  II  aura  recours  aux  ruses,  aux  prieres. 
II  voudra  nous  tenter  et  nous  attendrir.  II  nous 


216  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

fera  voir  des  espoirs  de^us,  des  joies  qui  ne 
reviendront  plus,  des  reproches  me'rite's,  des 
affections  bris£es,  de  1'amour  qui  est  mort,  de  la 
haine  qui  expire,  de  la  foi  gaspille'e,  de  la  beaute 
perdue,  tout  ce  qui  fut  un  jour  le  merveilleux 
ressort  de  notre  ardeur  a  vivre,  et  tout  ce  que  ses 
ruines  recelent  maintenant  de  tristesses  qui  nous 
rappellent,  et  de  bonheurs  defunts.  Mais  nous 
passerons  outre,  sans  retourner  la  tete,  ecartant  de 
la  main  la  foule  des  souvenirs,  comme  le  sage 
Ulysse,  dans  la  nuit  Cimmerienne,  &  1'aide  de  son 
e"p6e,  6cartait  du  sang  noir  qui  devait  les  faire 
revivre  et  leur  rendre  un  instant  la  parole,  toutes 
les  ombres  des  morts — meme  celle  de  sa  mere — 
qu'il  n'avait  pas  mission  d'interroger.  Nous  irons 
droit  £  telle  joie,  a  tel  regret,  a  tel  remords  dont  le 
conseil  est  n^cessaire ;  nous  irons  poser  des  questions 
tres  precises  a  telle  injustice,  soit  que  nous  voulions 
r£parer  celle-ci  s'il  est  encore  possible  de  le  faire  ; 
soit  que  nous  venions  demander  au  spectacle  de 
telle  autre  que  nous  avons  commise  et  dont  les 
victimes  ne  sont  plus,  la  force  indispensable  pour 
nous  clever  au-dessus  des  injustices  que  nous  nous 
sentons  encore  capables  de  commettre  aujourd'hui." 

The  lover  of  images  who  wrote  that  is  Maeter- 
linck, and  no  other.  Too  rarely,  for  a  book  whose 
chief  argument  should  be  the  convinced  spirit 
of  a  man,  do  we  feel  such  certainty.  As  in 
"  Joyzelle,"  he  utters  a  caution  against  hasty  con- 
clusions, though  in  another  place  he  bids  us  accept 
the  hypothesis  most  encouraging  to  "  our  existence 
in  this  life."  The  metaphysician  is  admirable,  but 
what  of  the  man  ?  He  speaks  out  at  times  in 
strong  but  general  terms.  For  example,  in  "  La 


"LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI  "  217 

Justice  "  he  mentions  three  among  perplexing  cases 
where  the  spirit  of  a  race  has  demanded  something 
offensive  to  the  individual  sense  of  human  justice : 
the  war  of  the  United  States  with  Spain  ;  the  case 
of  Dreyfus ;  and  the  war  of  Great  Britain  in  the 
Transvaal.  The  case  of  Dreyfus  he  calls  that  of 
"  an  innocent  man  sacrificed  to  the  preponderating 
interests  of  his  country " :  the  Boer  war  is 
"  iniquitous."  Again,  in  somewhat  remote  terms, 
he  asks  whether  there  may  not  be  something  in  the 
social  conditions  of  to-day  as  disconcerting  to 
posterity  as  the  injustice  to  women  revealed  in 
"The  Arabian  Nights":  and  a  little  later  he 
alludes  to  the  sense  of  injustice  towards  those  who 
are  very  poor,  which  must  chill  the  aspirations  of 
the  comfortable  class  to  a  better  life,  when  even 
the  leisure  which  sets  it  free  "  to  think  more 
fraternally  of  the  injustice  others  endure"  is  a  fruit 
of  this  great  "  anonymous  injustice."  Thereupon 
Maeterlinck  holds  up,  as  a  proof  of  development  in 
the  individual  sense  of  justice,  the  calmness  with 
which  Marcus  Aurelius  acknowledged  and  passed 
by  the  enormous  "  anonymous  injustice "  of  his 
own  day.  It  was,  he  believes,  a  calmness  beyond 
the  reach  of  men  with  anything  like  the  same 
sensitiveness  in  our  day.  He  quotes  the  following 
passage  from  the  Fourth  Book  of  the  "Meditations" 
of  Marcus  Aurelius,  with  the  comment  that  we  are 
now  concerned  with  other  matters  than  this  perfect 
ease  and  tranquillity : 

"  They    seek    for    themselves    private    retiring 


218  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

places,  as  country  villages,  the  sea-shore,  moun- 
tains ;  yea,  thou  thyself  art  wont  to  long  much 
after  such  places.  But  all  this,  thou  must  know, 
proceeds  from  simplicity  in  the  highest  degree. 
At  what  time  soever  thou  wilt,  it  is  in  thy  power 
to  retire  into  thyself,  and  to  be  at  rest,  and  free 
from  all  businesses.  A  man  cannot  any  whither 
retire  better  than  to  his  own  soul  ;  he  especially 
who  is  beforehand  provided  of  such  things  within, 
which  whensoever  he  doth  withdraw  himself  to 
look  in,  may  presently  afford  unto  him  perfect 
ease  and  tranquillity." 

But  there  is  proof  that  acquaintance  with  the 
great  "  anonymous  injustice "  need  not  destroy 
the  tranquillity  of  self-culture  in  a  sensitive  mind. 
A  book  of  uncommon  consistency  and  many 
beauties,  written  with  a  still  more  uncommon 
curious  seeking  after  felicity,  Mr.  Robert  de  la 
Condamine's  "  The  Upper  Garden,"  contains  the 
following  passage: 


"  Am  I,  by  serving  others,  the  lepers,  decadents 
who  choke  the  hospitals  and  swoon  in  the  streets, 
am  I,  by  ministering  to  those  who  are  only 
worthy  of  annihilation,  so  to  reduce  my  soul  until 
it  is  purged  of  all  its  own  responsibilities  and  fit 
at  length  for  the  ultimate  pure  nothing,  the 
characterless  ether?  Rather  will  I  suffer  for  the 
welfare  of  my  spirit's  pleasure  than  be  drugged 
by  the  disease  of  others.  Rather  will  I  develop 
my  soul  and  reject  all  those  things  that  will  not 
do  it  honour  by  the  increase  of  sensation  and 
the  fullness  of  material  for  its  possession  ;  and,  if 


"LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI"  219 

I  fail,  I  choose  to  be  destroyed  through  the  fault 
of  too  great  an  attempt,  and,  having  risen  for  a 
moment  to  overpowering  pinnacles,  rather  will  I 
travail  with  a  purpose  that  is  too  divine  than  I 
will  squander  my  powers,  however  weak  and 
ridiculous  they  may  be,  upon  needs  of  which  I  and 
all  others  are  ignorant.  Rather  than  debase  my 
personality  before  the  multitude  of  the  blind  and 
the  dumb  and  the  diseased,  I  will  develop  what 
spirit  I  can  muster  and  be  lost.  Though  I  may 
deal  with  it  but  weakly,  rather  will  I  be  wrapped 
and  shrouded  in  the  doom  which  my  power  shall 
earn  for  itself  than  I  will  spend  my  care  on 
the  personalities  of  all  these  others  who  are 
strangers  veiled  in  mists  that  yield  to  no  explorer, 
that  are  impossible  of  penetration." 


This  may  be  too  deliberate  and  emphatic  to 
be  quite  sincere  in  its  extremity.  It  is  in  the 
nature  of  a  challenge  or  a  retort.  Behind  its 
distemper  lies  a  desire  as  definite  and  accessible 
as  the  emperor's  ;  only,  the  writer  has  had  to  exert 
his  will  in  order  to  be  indifferent  to  the  mass  of 
life  which  he  shuts  out  from  his  "  upper  garden." 
Other  examples  might  be  given,  and  I  am  not  sure 
that  later  men  will  regard  with  any  great  awe,  if 
with  credulity,  the  voice  of  concern  and  pity  descend- 
ing out  of  almost  divinely  remote  altitudes  in  the 
writings  of  Maeterlinck  himself.  Even  so  he  writes 
of  bees ;  even  so,  perhaps,  would  his  imagined 
observer  from  another  world  regard  us.  He  speaks 
in  one  excellent  passage  in  "L'Evolution  du 
Mystere "  of  ideas,  such  as  those  relating  to 


220  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

evolution,  natural  selection,  etc.,  which  have  not  yet 
"  turned  into  feelings "  except  in  the  minds  of 
a  few  men  like  John  Davidson  ;  and  also  of  ideas 
which  are  "  purely  ideas."  His  own  ideas  are  often 
too  remote  from  feelings.  Seldom  can  he  move  us 
by  a  phrase  like  :  "  And  truly  there  goes  a  great 
deal  of  providence  to  produce  a  man's  life  unto 
threescore."  His  tone  is  a  shade  too  noble.  For 
example,  he  speaks  of  the  crime  of  the  slavery  and 
degradation  of  women  in  "  The  Arabian  Nights  " 
as  "  infinitely  more  revolting,  infinitely  more 
monstrous  "  than  any  poverty  : 

"...  1'esclavage,  et  surtout  1'asservissement  de 
la  femme  qui,  si  haute  qu'elle  soit,  et  dans  le 
moment  meme  ou  elle  parle  aux  hommes  de  bonte 
et  de  justice,  et  leur  ouvre  les  yeux  sur  leur  devoirs 
les  plus  touchants  et  les  plus  genereux,  ne  voit  pas 
1'abime  oil  elle  se  trouve  et  ne  se  dit  pas  qu'elle 
n'est  qu'un  simple  instrument  de  plaisir,  qu'on 
achete,  qu'on  revend,  ou  qu'on  donne  a  n'importe 
quel  maitre  repugnant  et  barbare,  dans  un  moment 
d'ivresse,  d'ostentation  ou  de  reconnaissance." 

Nearly  always,  when  writing  of  women,  he  uses 
this  noble  tone.  But  it  is  an  insignificant  trick  of 
temper,  or  perchance  a  genuine,  human  accent, 
which  sounds  in  a  very  different  phrase  in  "  La 
Chance  " — "  the  chance-governed  heart  of  women." 
He  is  speaking  of  a  good  but  unfortunate  man, 
who  had  many  virtues  and  a  pleasing  appearance  ; 
3>et,  in  spite  of  a  loving  disposition  he  was  sacri- 
ficed by  "  the  chance-governed  heart "  of  women 


"LE  TEMPLE  ENSEVELI"  221 

to  men  far  less  worthy  of  being  loved.  This  man 
is  referred  to  by  Maeterlinck  as  a  friend,  and  it 
may  well  be  that  his  warmth  has  betrayed  him  into 
a  touch  of  nature  in  this  phrase,  and  in  another 
where  he  speaks  of  "  the  paltry  snares  "  prepared 
for  his  friend  by  "  malicious  fortune  "  at  every  step. 
He  is  a  little  less  noble,  and  perhaps  a  little  more 
natural,  in  a  few  other  places.  "  La  Regne  de  la 
Matiere,"  for  example,  reveals  that  he  sees  a 
definite  though  a  small  reason  for  hope  in  the 
peasant  who  prefers  a  book  in  the  orchard  on 
Sunday  to  the  beershop,  in  the  citizen  who  prefers 
"  a  reposeful  afternoon "  to  the  racecourse,  in  the 
workman  who  takes  a  country  walk  or  watches  the 
sunset  from  the  walls  of  the  city  instead  of  singing 
"  obscene  or  ridiculous "  songs  in  the  street.  In 
the  same  essay  he  declares  calmly  in  favour  of  a 
vegetarian  diet  and  of  abstention  from  alcohol  on 
the  ground  that  they  mean  a  physical  and  moral 
improvement ;  but  I  should  conclude  that  he  had 
himself  not  given  up  meat  or  alcohol.  These 
things  are  not  to  be  despised,  but  they  do  not 
make  up  the  personality  which  could  unite  and 
illumine  the  great  subtlety  of  "  La  Justice  "  and 
the  great  wisdom  of  "  L'£volution  du  Mystere." 
The  essays  are  invaluable  as  contemporary  opinion, 
and  the  style  makes  them  irresistible  ;  but  they 
lack  foundation.  When  Maeterlinck  was  a  young 
man  he  wrote  with  the  intensity  and  narrowness 
incident  to  youth  ;  he  was  a  hundred  things  which 
could  not  have  been  guessed  from  his  writings. 
He  has  lost  the  narrowness  and  most  of  the  in- 


222  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

tensity,  but  I  cannot  feel  that  he  has  yet,  in  "  Le 
Temple  Enseveli,"  reached  a  steadfast,  whole, 
and  mature  expression.  He  is  many  things,  but 
he  is  not  yet  one.  A  man,  not  a  writer,  of 
this  type  would  probably  be  called  deficient  in 
character. 


XIV 

"MONNA  VANNA" 

MONNA  VANNA"  was  published,  like 
"Le  Temple  Enseveli,"  in  1902,  and 
acted  in  the  same  year.  It  is  the  first  of  Maeter- 
linck's plays  to  have  a  precise  date — the  end  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  Prinzivalle,  a  mercenary  of 
Florence,  is  besieging  Pisa.  He  is  a  dreamer,  a 
Platonist,  a  lover  of  beauty.  In  his  childhood  he 
met  Monna  Vanna,  and  his  love  has  endured. 
She,  though  he  touched  her  heart,  has  all  but 
forgotten  him,  and  is  sleepily  happy  as  the  wife  of 
Guido  Colonna,  a  Pisan  noble.  Prinzivalle  is 
willing  to  feed  the  starving  Pisans  if  Monna 
Vanna,  clad  only  in  a  mantle,  is  sent  out  to  his 
tent  at  night.  He  wishes,  it  might  be  supposed,  to 
learn  whether  she  is  one — for  he  knows  her  to  be 
pure  in  life — who  is  well  enough  versed  in  spiritual 
love  not  to  regard  the  body  separately,  or  whether 
she  has  become  the  slave  of  social  circumstances. 
That  a  virtuous  woman  becomes  less  virtuous  by 
having  only  a  mantle  on,  is  a  point  that  should 
trouble  even  a  prude  or  a  rake  in  the  proving.  Let 
that  pass.  Monna  Vanna,  who  has  no  cause  for 
223 


224  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

suspecting  Prinzivalle's  identity,  consents  to  go. 
Guido,  a  high-minded,  possibly  pure-living  man, 
assumes  that  her  honour  is  to  be  sacrificed, 
although  he  is  told  that  Prinzivalle  loves  her.  He 
raves  ;  asks  whether  no  other  man's  wife  will  do  ; 
declares  that  "  our  love  has  been  a  mere  lie,"  and 
that  he  has  "  to  bear  it  all "  ;  and  in  vain  orders 
that  she  shall  be  taken  to  a  dungeon,  as  if  she  were 
his  property  ;  i.e.  according  to  the  spirit  of  the 
play,  which  need  surprise  no  reader  of  "  Le  Tresor 
des  Humbles,"  he  does  not  love  her  utterly. 

Prinzivalle  loves  Monna  Vanna  with  a  love  to 
which  JofTroy  Rudel's  was  a  pleasant  whim.  He 
does  not  lay  a  finger  on  her.  Slowly  she  re- 
members, as  he  recalls  how  they  first  met  in  a 
Venetian  garden  in  June.  She  bethinks  her  of  the 
spiritual  grossness  of  her  marriage,  but  not  until 
after  long  argument.  Guido  has  made  her  "  at 
least  as  happy  as  one  can  be  when  one  has  re- 
nounced the  vague  and  extravagant  dreams  which 
seem  beyond  human  life."  Very  slowly,  Prinzi- 
valle's words  disturb  the  early  love,  where  it  lies 
beneath  the  thin  but  heavy  veil  of  married  bliss. 
...  In  the  dawn,  with  one  kiss  upon  his  brow, 
she  takes  him  back  to  Pisa,  to  save  him  from  his 
enemies. 

The  Pisans,  starving  no  longer,  greet  Vanna 
deliriously.  But  Guido  shows  no  joy  ;  all  night 
he  has  been  planning  revenge  ;  he  wants  to  hear 
from  her  the  sickening  tale  which  he  has  been 
telling  himself.  He  pushes  her  rudely  back  when 
she  would  tell  the  crowd  her  story.  Hearing  that 


"MONNA  VANNA »  -425 

her  companion  is  Prinzivalle,  he  rejoices.  He 
believes  that  Vanna  has  delivered  the  enemy  into 
his  hands.  "  There  is  a  justice  after  all "  :  she  is 
"  greater  than  Lucrece  or  Judith."  She  explains. 
At  first  he  thinks  that  she  is  mad,  then  that  she 
loves  Prinzivalle ;  and  on  the  latter  thought  he 
orders  his  enemy  to  a  dungeon,  and  will  see  him 
tortured.  Whereupon  Vanna  lies,  for  Prinzivalle's 
sake,  and  begs  that  she  shall  be  allowed  to  torture 
him,  all  to  herself.  Guido  believes  and  consents, 
and  her  last  words  are  to  him,  as  he  grants  her  the 
key  of  the  dungeon  : 

'"Yes,  it  has  been  a  bad  dream  .  .  .  but  the 
beautiful  one  will  begin.  The  beautiful  one  will 
begin.'" 

She  will  escape  with  Prinzivalle. 

The  mere  outline  of  this  play,  like  that  of 
"  Sceur  Beatrice"  or  "  Barbe  Bleue,"  does  not  reveal 
much  of  Maeterlinck :  it  might  have  been  the 
work  of  many  other  very  different  dramatists. 
Nor  are  the  characters  at  once  or  obviously  excep- 
tional. Guido  and  his  father,  Marco  Colonna, 
remain  without  surprises  for  us  throughout  the  play. 
Guido  is  an  ordinary  possessive  husband,  but  in  a 
high  place,  and  in  an  extraordinary  position  which 
tests  him,  and  finds  him  wanting,  whatever  standard 
is  applied.  Marco  is  more  remarkable,  but  quite 
credible  as  an  old  man  of  the  Renaissance.  He  is 
sent  to  Prinzivalle  to  attempt  to  make  terms,  and 
he  comes  back  to  say  that  the  condition  of  relief  is 
the  surrender  of  Monna  Vanna ;  but  he  is  in  no 


226  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

haste  to  tell  it  to  Guido,  because  he  has  met  the 
Platonist  Ficino  in  the  enemy's  camp,  and  has 
found  Prinzivalle  a  sensitive  humanist  who  loves 
not  war,  and  he  is  confident  of  attuning  his  son 
to  the  same  key.  Monna  Vanna  at  first  is  not 
surprising.  When  her  husband  hears  that  she 
accepts  the  painful  condition,  he  thinks  that  she 
means  to  kill  Prinzivalle,  and  then,  when  she  ex- 
plains that  this  would  mean  that  the  city  would 
not  be  relieved,  he  supposes  at  once  that  she 
loves  the  enemy,  and  asks,  "  Since  when  ?  "  But 
no  one  except  Guido  would  find  it  impossible 
to  believe  that  she  is  surrendering  herself  only  to 
save  the  people.  Guido  threatens  to  kill  her.  She 
only  says  that  he  will  do  it  if  love  commands ;  to 
which  he  replies,  repeating  her  words  contemptu- 
ously because  she  has  spoken  of  love  which  she 
does  not  know.  He  insults  her  in  his  pride  and 
misery.  She  wants  to  look  into  his  eyes — as 
Ablamore  did  with  Astolaine — his  eyes,  which  he 
has  turned  away  whilst  repulsing  her.  Apparently 
she  sees  there  the  truth — that  this  man's  love  is 
only  a  frantic,  tyrannous  affection  for  a  beautiful 
thing  entirely  subject  to  his  will  and  body,  that 
he  is  one  to  whom  her  purity  is  but  a  sensual 
delight. 

In  the  first  scene  ot  the  second  act  Prinzivalle 
is  expecting  the  sign  which  is  to  announce  that 
Monna  Vanna  is  coming.  He  says  to  his  secretary 
that  it  is  a  strange  thing  that  a  man  will  risk  his 
destiny,  his  reason,  and  his  heart,  for  a  thing  as 
frail  as  the  love  of  a  woman.  He  is  about  to  have 


"MONNA  VANNA"  227 

a  happiness  which  he  has  been  expecting  since  he 
was  a  child.  Evidently  this  happiness  cannot  be 
the  mere  physical  union  with  Monna  Vanna,  against 
her  will :  that  could  not  be  "  the  only  happiness 
which  he  has  dreamed  of  since  he  had  dreams.  .  .  ." 
Monna  Vanna  comes  in.  He  asks  her  if  she  is 
naked  under  the  mantle,  and  she  answers  "  Yes," 
and  also  prepares  to  divest  herself,  but  is  checked 
by  a  movement  from  Prinzivalle.  This  bold  stroke 
may  be  right  because  it  is  bold,  since  a  cold 
inventor  could  not  have  dared  so  much.  Prinzivalle, 
however,  genuinely  surprises  us  when  he  points  to 
his  bed  and  begins  to  be  eloquent  about  a  warrior's 
bed,  where  she  will  lie  upon  the  skins  of  aurochs 
and  rams  that  are  unfamiliar  with  a  thing  so  sweet 
and  precious  as  a  woman's  body.  This  speech 
suggests  rather  Maeterlinck's  than  Prinzivalle's 
thoughts  upon  the  occasion.  But  a  moment  later 
he  is  on  his  knees,  calling  her  Vanna  as  he  had 
been  used  to  do  when  he  was  twelve  and  she  eight. 
Vanna's  memory  slowly  and  sadly  awakens— she 
remembers  that  he  went  away  and  never  came 
back.  She  reproaches  him,  that  he  never  found 
her  out  though  he  loved  her  ;  she  even  says  that  it 
is  never  too  late  for  one  who  has  found  a  love 
that  can  fill  a  life.  She,  if  she  had  loved  so,  would 
have  told  destiny — she  speaks  like  Joyzelle — to 
move  out  of  her  path.  Nevertheless,  she  has 
accepted  the  love  that  has  fallen  to  her  ;  she  loves 
Guido  with  a  love  less  strange  than  Prinzivalle's, 
but  more  equable,  faithful,  and  sure.  He  asks  her 
if  she  has  trembled  or  hesitated  since  acceptirg 


228  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

this  condition  and  since  seeing  him  :  she  has  not. 
He  confesses  that  he  had  no  clear  intention  when 
expecting  her,  and  that  a  word  or  gesture  would 
have  inflamed  his  hate  ;  but,  on  seeing  her,  he 
knew  at  once  that  this  was  impossible — and  she 
also  knew  no  fear,  and  had  even  felt  that  she  knew 
him  though  she  could  not  remember  how.  They 
are  talking  together,  as  Vanna  says,  as  though 
they  were  alone  on  a  desert  island,  and  they  are  in 
a  solitude  magically  wrought  by  memory  and  first 
love.  But  she  thinks  of  her  husband  and  his 
suffering.  She  does  not  return  alone,  because 
Prinzivalle  is  warned  to  fly  from  treachery.  She 
will  save  him  by  taking  him  to  Pisa  and  standing 
surety  for  him.  She  is  happy  at  the  sight  and 
sound  of  Pisa  rejoicing,  and  she  gives  him  "  the 
only  kiss  she  can  give  him,"  upon  the  brow. 

While  Pisa  is  expecting  the  return  of  its  saviour, 
Marco  is  reasoning  with  Guido  in  the  accents  of 
Arkel,  of  Aglavaine,  ot  Merlin,  of  Maeterlinck 
himself.  He  urges  Guido  to  make  no  sudden, 
"  irrevocable  decision,"  telling  him  that  a  man  who 
wishes  to  be  just  can  only  choose  among  several 
acts  of  varying  injustice,  and  that  for  us,  "  the 
playthings  of  irresistible  forces,"  there  is  "  goodness, 
justice,  and  wisdom "  in  the  mere  lapse  of  time. 
But  Guide's  one  aim  is  to  destroy  the  supposed 
ravisher  of  his  wife,  and  he  curses  his  father.  The 
old  man,  remembering  his  own  youth,  accepts  this 
benignly,  asking  only  to  be  allowed  to  wait  and 
see  Vanna  throw  herself  into  her  husband's  arms. 
He  greets  her,  and  she,  throwing  herself  into  his 


"MONNA  VANNA"  229 

arms,  tells  him  she  is  happy.  She  wishes  to  tell  the 
crowd,  as  well  as  Guido,  what  has  happened  ;  but 
he,  who  has  repelled  her  approach,  bids  them  all  go. 
He  forgives  Vanna,  and  applauds  her  as  greater 
than  Lucrece  or  Judith  when  he  thinks  that  she  has 
brought  in  Prinzivalle  with  treachery,  and  he 
anticipates  revenge.  He  tries  now  to  kiss  her,  but 
she  thrusts  him  back  in  order  to  explain  the  truth ; 
for  she  can  now  speak  not  truth  only  but  "  the  pro- 
foundest  truth,  the  truth  one  speaks  only  once,  that 
brings  life  or  death  in  its  train."  She  explains 
that  Prinzivalle  loves  her,  and  has  therefore  spared 
her.  Guido  will  not  believe  that  he  has  spared 
her.  At  last  he  thinks  that  he  understands — she 
loves  Prinzivalle ;  but  still  he  does  not  believe  her. 
He  offers  to  let  them  go  away  free  if  she  will 
confess  what  he  is  convinced  of  and  is  gloating 
over  in  the  stupefaction  of  rage  and  despair.  She 
only  repeats  that  she  has  spoken  the  truth,  that 
Prinzivalle  did  not  touch  her.  This  condemns 
Prinzivalle  in  the  eyes  of  Guido,  whose  rage 
culminates  either  because  she  persists  in  the 
supposed  lie  notwithstanding  his  generosity,  or 
because  he  now  believes  her  and  sees  in  this  mystic 
chastity  something  silently  condemning  himself. 
Only  her  simulated  revulsion  and  confession  at  the 
last  moment  gives  her  the  key  of  her  lover's 
dungeon  that  she  may  torture  him,  as  Guido 
thinks — but  in  fact  that  he  may  escape  with  her 
out  of  the  evil  dream  into  a  beautiful  one.  Marco 
understands,  and  his  judgment  is  Maeterlinck's  : 
"  It  is  life  that  is  right."  In  the  version  of  the 


230  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

play  prepared  for  the  music  of  Henry  FeVrier  a 
fourth  act  is  added,  showing  Prinzivalle  and 
Vanna  escaping  at  dawn  and  disappearing  to- 
gether with  all  the  world  and  all  their  life  before 
them. 

Marco's  judgment  that  "Life  is  right"  is  more 
terrible  than  "  Necessity  is  stern,"  and  it  is  also 
pedantic.  It  is  Maeterlinck's  formula  for  surrender 
to  the  mystery  and  strength  of  the  infinite.  It  in 
no  way  affects  the  quality  of  this  brilliant  play. 
Great  gifts,  including  that  of  good  fortune,  were 
needed  to  make  "Monna  Vanna"  so  vivid,  moving, 
and  pictorial  upon  the  surface,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  essentially  spiritual.  He  has  done  this 
without  any  of  his  old  paraphernalia  :  no  towers, 
vaults,  or  impassable  doors.  Even  the  scene  in 
the  tent  might  have  been  used  by  another  dramatist 
with  little  difference.  That  Prinzivalle  should  fall 
in  love  with  Vanna  is  easily  credible ;  but  that 
he — though  a  man  of  "  dissolute  habits  "  appar- 
ently— had  loved  her  since  early  childhood,  that 
she  should  remember  this  childish  mutual  affection, 
that  she  should  gradually  recover  it,  and  at  last 
lose  her  time-honoured  love  for  her  husband  under 
its  spreading  triumph — this  perhaps  only  Maeter- 
linck would  ask  us  to  believe.  And  we  believe  it 
as  we  read  a  scene  like  this : 

V.  Vous  me  connaissez  done  ?  .  .  .  Qui  £tes- 
vous  ?  .  .  . 

P.  Vous  n'avez  jamais  vu  celui  qui  vous 
regarde,  comme  on  regarderait,  dans  un  monde  de 


"MONNA  VANNA"  23! 

fe"es,  la  source  de  sa  joie  et  de  son  existence  .  .  . 
comme  je  n'esp6rais  pas  vous  regarder  un  jour?  .  .  . 

V.    Non.  .  .  .  Du  moins  je  ne  crois  pas.  .  .  . 

P.  Oui,  vous  ne  saviez  pas  .  .  .  et  j'e'tais  sur, 
he"las !  que  vous  ne  saviez  plus.  ...  Or  vous 
aviez  huit  ans,  et  moi  j'en  avais  douze,  quand  je 
vous  rencontrai  pour  la  premiere  fois.  .  .  . 

V.   Ou  cela  ?  .  .  . 

P.  A  Venise,  un  dimanche  de  juin.  Mon  pere, 
le  vieil  orfevre,  apportait  un  collier  de  perles  el 
votre  mere. — Elle  admirait  les  perles.  .  .  .  J'errais 
dans  le  jardin.  .  .  .  Alors,  je  vous  trouvai  sous  un 
bosquet  de  myrtes,  pres  d'un  bassin  de  marbre.  .  .  . 
Une  mince  bague  d'or  e*tait  tombe'e  dans  1'eau.  .  .  . 
Vous  pleuriez  pres  du  bord.  .  .  .  J'entrai  dans  le 
bassin. — Je  faillis  me  noyer  ;  mais  je  saisis  la  bague 
et  vous  la  mis  au  doigt.  .  .  .  Vous  m'avez  em- 
brasse"  et  vous  e"tiez  heureuse.  .  .  . 

V.  C'e"tait  un  enfant  blond  nomine"  Gianello. 
Tu  es  Gianello  ?  .  .  . 

P.   Oui. 

V.  Qui  vous  cut  reconnu  ?  .  .  .  Et  puis  votre 
visage  est  cache*  par  ces  linges.  .  .  .  Je  ne  vois  que 
vos  yeux.  .  .  . 

P.  (e"cartant  un  peu  les  bandages).  Me  recon- 
naissez-vous,  lorsque  je  les  e"carte  ?  .  .  . 

V,  Oui  .  .  .  Peut-£tre.  ...  II  me  semble.  .  .  . 
Car  vous  avez  encore  un  sourire  d'enfant.  .  .  . 
Mais  vous  etes  blesse"  et  vous  saignez  aussi.  .  .  . 

P.  Oh !  pour  moi  ce  n'est  rien.  .  .  .  Mais  pour 
vous,  c'est  injuste.  .  .  . 

V.  Mais  le  sang  perce  tout.  .  .  .  Laissez-moi 
rattacher  ce  bandage.  ...  II  e"tait  mal  nou6.  .  .  . 
(Elle  rajuste  les  linges).  J'ai  soigne"  bien  souvent 
des  blesses  dans  cette  guerre.  .  .  .  Oui,  oui,  je  me 
rappelle.  .  .  .  Je  revois  le  jardin  avec  ses  grena- 


*3«  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

diers,  ses  lauriers  et  ses  roses.  .  .  .  Nous  y  avons 
joue"  plus  d'une  apres-midi,  quand  le  sable  e"tait 
chaud  et  couvert  de  soleil. 

P.  Douze  fois,  j'ai  compte\  .  .  .  Je  dirais  tous 
nos  jeux  et  toutes  vos  paroles.  .  .  . 

V.  Puis  un  jour  j'attendis,  car  je  vous  aimais 
bien.  Vous  e*tiez  grave  et  doux  comme  une  petite 
fille,  et  vous  me  regardiez  comme  une  jeune  reine. 
Vous  n'etes  pas  revenu.  .  .  . 

The  phrase,  "  Vous  n'e"tes  pas  revenu,"  recalls 
the  "  Nous  ne  nous  verrons  plus  "  of  "  Alladine  et 
Palomides "  ;  the  whole  scene,  the  fountain  and 
the  lost  ring  and  the  girl  weeping,  recalls  "  Pelle'as 
et  M61isande,"  but  with  a  difference.  In  the  earlier 
play  the  scene  had  an  unreal,  vaguely  significant 
beauty ;  in  the  later  one,  memory  makes  the 
beauty  natural  and  the  significance  is  genuinely 
that  of  moments  not  known  as  priceless  until  they 
are  past.  In  the  earlier  play  he  invented  the 
episode  out  of  an  inexperienced  love  of  beauty ; 
in  the  later  he  seems  to  have  discovered  it  in  life. 
Yet  it  would  be  possible  to  see  in  his  first  use  of 
it  a  beauty  as  of  intuitive  divination  which  is  want- 
ing in  the  second. 

From  this  point  there  is  nothing  difficult  to 
accept,  save  the  moral  speeches  of  Marco,  and 
these  are  worthy  of  a  place  in  Maeterlinck's  essays 
or  on  the  lips  of  a  formal  chorus  rather  than  of  a 
character  in  the  play.  One  of  the  best  of  critics, 
Edouard  Schure,  has,  in  a  brief  note  on  "  Monna 
Vanna,"  regretted  that  the  escape  should  be  due 
to  a  lie.  Maeterlinck's  "Life  is  right"  is  a  con- 


"MONNA  VANNA"  233 

venient  reply,  but  there  is  no  need  of  it.  The 
critic  would  not  blame  Vanna  for  a  lie  in  her 
position,  but  presumably  blames  the  dramatist  for 
allowing  the  best  to  depend  upon  the  lie.  There 
is  no  need  to  argue  in  favour  of  white  lies,  espe- 
cially when  they  are  conceived  in  the  utmost 
passion  of  a  pure  mind  ;  they  are  judged  white  by 
those  who  come  after,  not  by  those  who  profit,  and, 
it  may  be,  suffer  by  them.  To  avoid  the  lie  I 
should  fear  to  see  the  heart's  blood  of  Prinzivalle 
and  Vanna,  and  perhaps  Guido  himself.  After 
placing  his  characters  in  Italy  of  the  fifteenth 
century  he  was  bound  to  provide  a  conspicuous 
and  decisive  conclusion  :  a  melancholy  shutting  of 
the  door  would  not  have  been  audible  among 
princes  and  warriors.  If  there  is  a  weakness,  it  is 
that  Vanna  should  see  a  beautiful  dream  beginning, 
and  that  the  dramatist  should  encourage  a  feeling 
of  cheerfulness,  when  it  is  certain  that,  so  long  as 
the  revengeful  Guido  lives,  the  evil  dream  will 
remain  with  the  lovers.  This  cheerfulness  is  less 
fitting  for  two  lovers  in  the  fifteenth  century  than 
to-day.  In  that  age  two  such  dream-lovers  would 
have  had  little  chance  of  eluding  the  vengeance  of 
Guido.  .  .  .  But  this  incongruity  is  slight,  and  even 
questionable,  and  is  no  high  price  for  the  trium- 
phant combination  of  a  noble  presence  and  a 
delicate  spirit  in  the  play.  The  need  for  this 
combination,  which  might  have  to  be  condemned 
by  the  most  austere  criticism,  is  to  be  sought  in 
Maeterlinck's  character.  He  is  fond  of  saying  that 
an  old  man  reading  by  a  lamp  may  be  more  tragic 


234  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

than  the  "  tragic  loading  of  this  bed,"  but  his  per- 
sonal taste  demands  something  more — stupendous 
castles,  subterranean  vaults,  weird  forests,  strange 
islands,  and  now  the  opulent  colour  and  movement 
and  morale  of  Renaissance  life.  Whatever  the 
surroundings,  they  have  usually  been  not  so  much 
irrelevant  as  contrastful,  and  it  is  so  in  "  Monna 
Vanna"  also.  Two  children  continue  their  dream 
while  a  city  starves  and  is  relieved,  and  a  prince 
violently  laments  the  loss  of  his  lawful  wife. 

Like  "  Sceur  Beatrice  "  and  "  Joyzelle  "  this  play 
is  an  illustration  of  "  La  Morale  Mystiqr.e,"  and 
like  them,  though  in  a  less  degree,  it  has  the  weak- 
ness of  using  characters  belonging  to  no  place  or 
time,  unless  it  be  our  own  ;  and,  if  it  be  our  own, 
then  the  picturesque  setting  is  a  needless  and  even 
unfair  distraction.  As  an  artist  appealing  to 
audiences  of  theatres,  Maeterlinck  has  advanced  ir 
this  play,  and  has  shown  himself  capable  of  holding 
an  ordinary  stage,  whilst  remaining  faithful  in  the 
main  to  his  proper  ideals.  At  the  same  time  he 
has  practically  relinquished  the  aim  apparent  in  his 
earlier  plays  of  making  for  these  ideals  a  dramatic 
scheme  peculiarly  his  own,  and,  at  least  by  its 
independence  of  the  world  of  to-day  and  yesterday, 
fit  for  the  exhibition  of  characters  dwelling  in  the 
world  of  his  imagination  and  of  the  future. 


XV 

"  LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN  " 

LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN"  was  published  in 
1904,  and  it  is  still  farther  than  its  pre- 
decessor from  "  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles  "  and  "  La 
Sagesse  et  la  Destined."  The  subject  and  method 
of  the  five  long  essays  in  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli  " 
gave  the  book  a  kind  of  unity,  but  "  Le  Double 
Jardin  "  has  none.  There  are  sixteen  essays,  and 
English  translations  of  most,  if  not  all,  had  already 
been  published  in  a  dozen  different  magazines  and 
newspapers.  The  subjects  are  a  bulldog,  Monte 
Carlo,  duelling,  the  appendicitis  of  Edward  the 
Seventh,  universal  suffrage,  the  modern  drama, 
Rome  (for  which  fortune-telling  is  substituted  in  the 
English  edition),  a  ride  in  a  motor-car,  the  coming 
of  spring,  the  bee's  temper,  field  flowers  and 
garden  flowers,  sincerity,  a  lady,  and  the  present 
day.  These  prove  him  by  far  the  most  brilliant 
of  essayists  in  this  generation,  never  tedious  or 
banal,  always  adroit,  ingenious,  cheerful,  impressive, 
and  picturesque. 

Naturally  enough,  these  being  the  subjects  and 
the  public  that  of  the  magazines,  Maeterlinck  now 
235 


236  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

reveals  more  and  more  of  his  own  tastes  and 
interests.  The  essay  in  praise  of  duelling,  for 
example,  reveals  him  as  a  man  of  refinement,  who 
sees  vulgarity  in  the  movements  of  boxing  and 
something  repugnant  in  its  effects.  "  Le  Drame 
Moderne "  reveals  him  as  an  optimist  looking 
forward  to  a  time  when  men  will  have  one  duty — 
to  do  "  the  least  possible  harm  and  love  others  as 
we  love  ourselves."  The  essay  on  fortune-telling, 
or  foretelling  of  the  future,  reveals  him  going  to 
test  the  power  of  clairvoyants,  seers,  and  mediums. 
"  En  Automobile "  reveals  him  as  an  enthusiastic 
motorist  willing  to  talk  about  his  motor-car  to  the 
public  as  a  "  dreadful  hippogriff."  "  Les  Sources 
des  Printemps  "  reveals  him  as  a  luxurious  lover  of 
nature  who  finds  the  cosmopolitan  life  of  the 
Riviera  "  somewhat  hateful."  "  Le  Mort  d'un  Petit 
Chien  "  reveals  him  as  a  genial  lover  of  dogs,  who 
says  that  in  a  few  days  they  get  into  their  heads 
a  conception  of  the  universe,  while  a  man  takes 
"  thirty  or  forty  "  years  ;  who  then  asks  whether, 
in  the  eyes  of  an  all-knowing  God,  the  dog's  con- 
ception would  not  have  the  same  weight  and  value 
as  man's.  Everywhere,  in  fact,  he  appears  as  a 
genial  man  with  no  extraordinary  tastes,  who 
differs  from  other  men  chiefly  by  his  subtle  refine- 
ments of  thought  and  his  exuberance  and  grace  of 
style.  From  the  beginning,  however  remote,  he 
was  never  disturbing  or  exacting ;  now  he  is 
almost  uniformly  sunny  and  encouraging,  as  when 
he  says  that  "  in  those  problems  in  which  all  life's 
enigmas  converge,  the  crowd  which  is  wrong  is 


"LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN  "  237 

almost  always  justified  as  against  the  wise  man 
who  is  right."  He  condemns  no  man.  While  in 
one  place  he  seems  to  look  forward  to  a  time  when 
men  will  be  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  in 
another  he  bids  us  remember  that  we  are  "  beings 
of  prey  and  strife,"  and  must  be  careful  not  to 
destroy  "  the  qualities  of  primitive  man,  for  it  was 
not  without  reason  that  Nature  placed  them  there." 
He  could  probably  be  all  things  to  all  men  and  to 
all  editors.  I  should  like  to  see  him  writing  upon 
bantams  for  The  Feathered  World  \  it  would  be  the 
most  beautiful  chapter  ever  written  upon  bantams, 
just  as  "  Eloge  de  1'fepde "  is  the  most  beautiful 
upon  duelling,  unless  we  except  Mr.  Joseph 
Conrad's  story  of  "  A  Point  of  Honour,"  which  is 
undoubtedly  more  instructive.  A  friend  of  mine 
who  admires  Maeterlinck,  but  had  had  too  much 
of  "  La  Sagesse  et  la  Destined,"  once  dreamed  that 
he  was  a  child  again  and  was  corrected  at  the 
luncheon-table  for  his  ill-behaviour ;  whereto  he 
replied,  with  a  consciousness  of  being  unanswer- 
able :  "  L'avare  seul  sait  se  distraire,  et  il  communi- 
que au  monde  exteVieur  la  cause  de  sa  joie."  He 
communicated  it  to  me  as  an  exquisitely  Maeter- 
linckian  product  of  his  unconsciousness,  and  I  feel 
sure  that,  if  he  lives  long  enough,  Maeterlinck  will 
achieve  this  same  apology  for  the  poor  avaricious 
man.  He  finds  what  is  admirable  everywhere,  and 
what  is  mysterious.  The  terminology  of  motoring, 
for  example,  he  pauses  to  admire : 

"  Admirons  en  passant  la  terminologie  spontane"e 


238  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

et  bizarre,  mais  non  pas  sotte,  qui  est  comme  la 
langue  de  la  force  nouvelle.  L'avance  a  fallumage 
(qui  correspond  dans  un  autre  ordre  de  phe'nomenes 
a  ravance  a  I  admission  des  locomotives),  est 
un  terme  tres  juste,  et  il  serait  fort  difficile  d'ex- 
primer  plus  simplement  et  plus  sensiblement  ce 
qu'il  avait  a  dire.  .  .  .  D'oii  sortent-ils,  ces  mots 
qui  naissent  tout  a  coup,  au  moment  necessaire, 
pour  fixer  dans  la  vie  les  etres  ignores  hier  ?  On 
ne  le  sait  jamais.  Us  s'eVadent  des  ateliers,  des 
usines,  des  boutiques  ;  ils  sont  les  derniers  e*chos 
de  cette  voix  commune  et  anonyme  qui  a  donne" 
un  nom  aux  arbres  et  aux  fruits,  au  pain  et  au  vin, 
a  la  vie  et  a  la  mort ;  et-  quand  les  savants  les 
regardent  et  les  interrogent,  le  plus  souvent  il  est 
heureusement  trop  tard  pour  qui'ils  y  changent  rien." 

Again,  in  his  essay  on  sincerity,  he  asserts,  in  his 
quiet  way,  that  "every  man  has  the  right  to  be 
what  he  is  " ;  and,  as  to  faults,  he  is  not  as  sure  as 
Joyzelle  that  the  greatest  fault  becomes,  by  con- 
fession, a  truth  more  beautiful  than  innocence,  but 
he  is  sure  that  it  is  "younger,  more  vivid,  more 
visible,  more  active,  and  more  loving."  His  tender 
sense  of  the  mystery  of  life  reaches  one  of  its 
highest  points  in  this  same  essay : 

"  II  n'est  pas  indispensable  qu'on  se  corrige  des 
fautes  avoue"es  ;  car  il  y  a  des  fautes  n^cessaires  a 
notre  existence  et  a  notre  caractere.  Beaucoup  de 
nos  defauts  sont  les  racines  memes  de  nos  quality's. 
Mais  la  connaissance  et  1'aveu  de  ces  fautes  et  de 
ces  deTauts  precipite  chimiquement  le  venin  qui 
n'est  plus  au  fond  du  cceur  qu'un  sel  inerte  dont  on 
peut  6tudier  a  loisir  les  cristaux  innocents." 


11 LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN"  239 

The  simile  is  characteristically  impressive,  but  the 
experience  of  some  might  lead  them  to  think  that 
it  is  inaccurately  used  to  describe  the  effect  of 
admitting  faults,  if  it  were  not,  however,  adroitly 
qualified  by  the  remark  that  this  effect  depends  on 
the  maker  and  the  receiver  of  the  admission.  His 
is  a  possible  view  of  sincerity,  and  with  his  cus- 
tomary skill  he  carries  it  rapidly  out  of  the  thick 
air  of  experience  into  the  crystal  inane,  and  a 
section  of  morals  for  angels  or  marionettes  is  the 
charming  result.  Reading  this,  it  is  hard  to  avoid 
an  imperious  impatience  that  Maeterlinck  should 
so  seldom  attempt  in  fiction  or  drama  to  show  us 
these  morals  at  work,  and  that,  when  he  does,  he 
should  so  encumber  them  with  secrecy  and  ex- 
ternal mystery.  In  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli,"  and 
now  again  in  "  Le  Double  Jardin,"  he  repeats  what 
he  says  in  "  Le  Tre"sor  des  Humbles,"  that  the 
modern  stage  has  no  need  of  the  old  violence  and 
magnificence.  "  It  is  in  a  small  room,"  he  says, 
"  round  a  table,  close  to  the  fire,  that  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  mankind  are  decided."  His  own  use  of 
a  silent,  small  room  in  "  L'Intruse  "  and  "  Inte"rieur  " 
is  perfectly  justified,  but  these  plays  are  hidden 
away  by  the  castles  in  the  moon  of  the  early 
plays,  the  marvels  of  "  Barbe  Bleue  "  and  "  Joyzelle," 
and  the  brilliant  Renaissance  setting  of  "  Monna 
Vanna."  He  returns  again  to  the  question  in 
"  Les  Rameaux  d'Olivier."  There  he  says  that  we 
are  now  emerging  from  a  great  religious  period, 
and  that  the  "gloomy  and  threatening"  back- 
ground of  human  life  is  disappearing.  With  good 


24o  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

reason  he  believes  that,  nevertheless,  the  justice, 
the  goodness,  and  "  the  quality  of  the  general  con- 
science" have  increased.  But  he  asks  to  what 
religion  this  improvement  can  be  attributed.  He 
thinks  it  due  in  part  to  increased  knowledge,  by 
means  of  which  "the  universe  is  beginning  to 
penetrate  into  the  conception  which  we  form  of 
it."  Before  this  age  of  science  he  thinks  that  men 
were  merely  "  prosing,"  with  logic  or  imagination 
as  their  instrument,  instead  of  knowledge  and  in- 
quiry. True,  we  now  have  no  fixed  morality,  no 
defined  consolation,  promise,  or  hope.  The  sense 
of  our  littleness  has  grown,  and  the  power  which 
enables  us  to  perceive  it  has  also  grown.  But  then, 
if  the  importance  of  the  individual  is  diminishing, 
that  of  humanity  has  increased,  and  the  feeling 
of  the  greatness  of  humanity  "is  fashioning  our 
morality "  and  preparing  great  changes.  We  are, 
perhaps,  to  have  that  sense  of  race  which  in  the 
honey-bee  swallows  up  egoism.  Furthermore, 
Maeterlinck  sees  many  new  reasons  for  hope. 
The  greatest  dangers  to  man  upon  the  earth 
"  seem  past " ;  he  even  hints  that  we  shall  have 
the  respite  of  a  few  centuries,  necessary  for  learn- 
ing how  to  avoid  collision  with  a  stray  star. 
We  may  even  learn  to  understand  gravitation.  In 
short,  we  have  grounds  for  magnificent  expec- 
tations : 

"Car  nous  sommes  dans  I'e'tat  magnifique  ou 
Michel-Ange  a  peint,  sur  ce  prodigieux  plafond 
de  la  chapelle  Sixtine,  les  prophetes  et  les  justes 


"LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN"  241 

de  1'Ancien  Testament :  nous  vivons  dans  1'attente  ; 
et  peut-etre  dans  les  derniers  moments  de  1'attente. 
L'attente,  en  effet,  a  des  degr^s  qui  vont  d'une  sorte 
de  resignation  vague  et  qui  n'espere  pas  encore  au 
tressaillement  que  suscitent  les  mouvements  les 
plus  proches  de  1'objet  attendu.  II  semble  que 
nous  entendions  ces  mouvements :  bruit  de  pas 
surhumains,  porte  ^norme  qui  s'ouvre,  souffle  qui 
nous  caresse  ou  lumiere  qui  vient,  on  ne  sait ;  mais 
1'attente  a  ce  point  est  un  instant  de  vie  ardent  et 
merveilleux,  la  plus  belle  p£riode  du  bonheur,  sa 
jeunesse,  son  enfance." 

This  magnificent  expectation  is  clad  in  suitable 
magnificence  by  Maeterlinck,  but  the  matter  of  it 
is  fit  rather  to  give  a  sad  pride  than  either  con- 
solation or  tranquillity.  This  is  not  a  new  subject, 
and  we  are  justly  exacting  in  our  criticism  of  who- 
ever handles  it  It  used  to  be  said  that  science  was 
destroying  poetry  and  religion — as  if  science  could 
destroy  anything  that  was  still  worth  having !  Poetry 
itself  has  continued  to  be  indifferent  to  the  asser- 
tion, and  to  offer  refutation  only  by  its  triumphant 
existence.  Mr.  Charles  M.  Doughty,  Mr.  Yeats, 
Mr.  W.  H.  Davies,  Mr.  Walter  de  la  Mare — to  name 
only  the  first  poets  that  come  into  my  mind — do 
so  refute  it.  As  to  religion,  an  interesting  book 
has  lately  been  written — "  The  Ascending  Effort," 
by  Mr.  George  Bourne — upon  a  text  from  a  speech 
by  Sir  Francis  Galton  upon  Eugenics,  where  he 
said  that  "  if  the  principles  he  was  advocating  were 
to  become  effective,  they  '  must  be  introduced  into 
the  national  conscience,  like  a  new  religion.' "  Mr. 
li 


242  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Bourne  is  not  particularly  concerned  with  Eugenics, 
but  with  the  whole  problem  of  art  and  science,  of 
the  vitalizing  of  science,  of  the  broadening  of  art, 
and  of  the  relations  between  the  two.  The  word 
"  religion "  used  by  Sir  Francis  Galton  does  not, 
he  thinks,  stand  for  any  one  doctrine,  but  for  "a 
certain  activity  of  the  vital  energies,"  which  is  the 
same  sort  of  activity  in  all  religions : 

"  In  partial  manifestation,  and  under  various 
names,  the  vital  activity  required  is  already  familiar 
to  us.  We  recognize  it  in  reverence,  faithfulness, 
sympathy,  admiration :  forms  which  lend  them- 
selves to  treatment,  and  by  known  methods.  And 
although  it  may  be  difficult  to  specialize  our  efforts 
so  that  enthusiasm  shall  flow  in  one  particular 
direction,  still,  as  enthusiasm  is  a  form  of  vital 
force,  the  task  is  one  for  which  we  cannot  pretend 
to  lack  the  means.  The  means  are  summed  up  in 
the  one  word  Art.  The  energies  of  the  race  may 
always  be  warmed  by  art." 

Mr.  Bourne's  argument  that  "  the  intoxicating 
power  of  art "  is  what  is  needed  to  give  effect  to 
the  doctrines  of  science  is  impressively  supported 
by  the  reasoning  and  restrained  emotion  of  a  man 
whom  we  learn  to  trust,  though  when  he  says 
that  "  Art  must  adapt  itself  to  the  new  philosophy  " 
we  can  only  reply  that  there  are  no  "  musts  "  in  the 
future,  but  an  infinite  "  may."  This  book  has 
probably  been  the  life-work  of  an  artist  without 
the  slightest  tinge  of  professionalism,  and  seems  to 
be  the  meeting-place  of  all  or  many  of  the  forces 
in  a  keen,  sober,  and  mature  life.  It  has  a  force 


"LE   DOUBLE  JARDIN"  243 

of  personality  behind  it  stronger  than  that  behind 
Maeterlinck's  eloquence,  but  in  neither  forecast  is 
there  force  enough  to  atone  altogether  for  the 
lack  of  any  showing  how  the  thing  will  or  may 
be  done. 

John  Davidson's  later  work,  his  crude  and 
furious  pamphlets  in  verse,  showed  how  a  brave 
poet  could  fail  and  could  cease  to  be  a  poet  in 
attempting  to  do  with  his  one  mind  what  no  one 
mind  had  ever  done  before — to  face  contemporary 
life  and  science  and  invent  a  new  cosmogony 
better  suited  to  its  needs.  His  King  Mammon 
told  his  wife,  in  phrases  that  might  have  been 
Maeterlinck's  : 

Nothing  is  greater  anywhere  than  us : 
We  form  the  matter  of  the  farthest  star, 
The  matter  of  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  sky. 

Addressing  his  soldiers,  this  King  longs  to  be 
on  top  of  Everest,  and  heard  of  all  men  : 

The  parasites  that  in  our  bodies  burrow ; 

The  lily  and  the  rose,  whose  passionate  breath 

Perfumes  our  love-thoughts  with  the  scent  of  love  ; 

The  tawny  brutes  whose  anguished  roar  appals 

The  desert  and  the  jungle — they  that  suck 

The  steaming  blood  and  tear  the  shuddering  flesh 

Of  timid,  browsing  beasts  .  .  . 

The  woodland  and  the  mountain  and  the  sea ; 

The  myriad  suns  that  pave  the  Milky  Way  .  .  . 

All  these — all  that,  is  us,  is  you  and  me, 

The  conscience  of  the  infinite  universe. 

No  supernatural  thought  must  cloud  your  minds. 


244  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Nor  is  such  a  roaring  hot  Utopia  more  en- 
couraging than  the  frigid  quiet  of  Vernon  Lee's 
book  on  "  Gospels  of  Anarchy " :  "I  propose 
nothing,  because  I  do  not  know.  All  I  feel  sure 
of  is,  that  if  people  want  a  change  sufficiently, 
strongly,  and  persistently,  that  change  will  work 
out  its  means  in  one  way  or  another  "  ;  though  even 
she  is  willing  to  believe  that  "the  more  we  let 
nature  work  for  us,  the  more  we  employ  our 
instincts  and  tendencies,  instead  of  thwarting  them, 
the  less  will  be  the  waste  and  the  greater  the 
achievement."  Maeterlinck  says  materially  little 
more  than  this,  but  he  communicates  a  sense  of 
the  mystery  and  greatness  of  man  and  of  human 
life  which  does  some,  perhaps,  of  the  very  work 
which  he  is  powerless  to  define. 

On  the  whole  he  is  confident,  and  might  be 
called  an  optimist  if  the  word  retained  any  value. 
He  is  confident  about  the  future  of  the  world  and 
of  man.  He  believes  in  universal  suffrage,  and 
is  sure  that  "the  harmonious  use  of  liberty  is 
acquired  only  by  a  long  misuse  of  its  benefits." 
Speaking  on  this  subject,  he  varies  a  favourite 
phrase  by  saying  that  the  natural  appetite  of  a 
democracy,  like  that  ot  every  living  thing,  knows 
what  is  "  indispensable  to  the  mystery  of  life." 
He  believes  that  the  crannies  are  widening  in  the 
wall  between  reason,  that  knows  "scarcely  any- 
thing," and  instinct  "  which  knows  all,  but  cannot 
make  use  of  the  knowledge."  In  the  portrait  of 
a  lady  he  shows  that  he  can  still  write  of  women 
with  enthusiasm  while  averting  his  face,  and  he 


"LE   DOUBLE  JARDIN"  245 

speaks  of  one  who  has  for  ornament  all  the 
passions  and  weaknesses  of  woman,  asking  how 
she  could  be  beautiful  if  she  did  not  know  mirrors. 
It  is  worth  noticing  that  something  of  the  early 
Maeterlinck  survives.  For  example,  he  writes  of 
the  fears  of  his  dog  in  the  solitude  of  night  just  as 
he  used  to  write  of  men  : 

"  On  se  sent  tres  petit  et  tres  faible  en  presence 
du  mystere.  On  sait  que  1'ombre  est  peup!6e 
d'ennemis  qui  se  glissent  et  attendent.  On  suspecte 
les  arbres,  le  vent  qui  passe  et  les  rayons  de  la  lune. 
On  voudrait  se  cacher  et  se  faire  oublier  en 
retenant  son  souffle." 

And  to  make  the  dog's  friendliness  more  im- 
pressive he  emphasizes  the  solitude  of  man  upon 
this  planet  in  something  like  his  old  manner.  It 
can  be  seen  in  the  chapter  on  field-flowers,  where 
he  speaks  of  the  pale  earliest  spring  blossoms  as 
"  ansemic  captives  "  and  as  "  convalescent  patients," 
out  of  the  "  prisons  "  under  the  earth.  The  very 
early  Maeterlinck  may  perhaps  be  at  the  bottom 
of  a  phrase  which  speaks  of  birds,  precious  stones, 
and  woman  together  as  "  ornaments  of  our  planet," 
teaching  man  that  things  may  be  at  once  useless 
and  beautiful — phrases  such  as  now  and  then 
suggest  a  man  rather  different  from  the  noble  and 
exalted  prose-writer  of  most  of  these  essays.  And 
in  a  passage  already  quoted,  where  he  speaks  of 
the  great  expectations  of  humanity  and  the  images 
of  superhuman  footsteps  sounding,  of  a  great 
door  opening  and  light  appearing  to  imprisoned 


*4<5  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

men,  we  are  reminded  of  the  light  coming  to 
Maleine  in  her  tower  or  to  Alladine  and  Palomides 
in  their  dungeon.  Instead  of  ghastly,  concealed 
queens  and  sunless  castles  he  now  sees  life  as 
threatened  by  the  morality  of  nature,  "  horrible  " 
and  "monstrous,"  which  would  destroy  men  if 
they  practised  it  entirely.  When  it  suits  him  he 
will  write  as  if  he  had  never  scorned  the  false 
old  mysteries  with  which  poets  yet  chill  our 
blood  ;  will  speak,  for  instance,  of  Edward  the 
Seventh,  lying  ill  of  appendicitis,  as  an  "  illustrious  " 
victim  of  "a  whim"  of  fate  "hovering  between 
the  crown  and  death."  The  whole  essay  is  a 
tissue  of  gaudy  and  almost  tawdry  eloquence  :  the 
king,  who  had  not  been  crowned  though  he  was 
king  in  every  sense,  is  described  as  about  to 
attain  "  the  sole  object,  the  essential  moment "  of 
his  life ;  and  it  is  surmised  that  this  "  royal  tragedy  " 
proves  the  impotence  of  man's  love,  prayers,  and 
"  finest  moral  forces "  against  the  will  of  nature. 
These  tones  remind  me  of  one  whom  I  had  never 
thought  to  connect  in  any  way  with  Maeterlinck. 
Preaching  upon  the  occasion  of  the  sudden  death 
of  the  Duke  of  Albany  in  1884,  and  taking  as  his 
text,  "  For  what  is  life  ?  It  is  even  a  vapour,  that 
appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away,"  the  late  C.  H.  Spurgeon  began  his  sermon  : 

"  When  a  prince  dies  they  toll  the  great  bell 
of  the  cathedral  that  all  the  city  may  hear  it,  and 
that  for  miles  round  the  tidings  may  be  spread. 
Swift  messengers  of  the  press  bear  the  news 


"LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN"  247 

through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  and  all 
men's  ears  are  made  to  tingle.  A  royal  death 
is  a  national  warning.  A  death  in  any  one  of  our 
families  is  a  loud  call  to  our  household,  a  call 
which  I  trust  we  hear  ;  but  a  death  in  the  royal 
family  has  a  voice  to  the  whole  nation.  It  will  be 
heard,  it  must  be  heard.  In  this  great  city  the 
crowds  who  care  not  to  come  to  the  house  of  God, 
will  nevertheless  hear  of  this  lamented  death,  and 
think  of  it,  and  speak  of  it  each  man  to  his  fellow. 
Death  is  an  orator  whose  solemn  periods  demand 
attention,  especially  when  he  preaches  from  the 
steps  of  the  throne." 

There  are  many  differences  between  these  two 
orators,  but  they  agree  alike  in  their  theatrical  use 
of  the  two  panoplied  phantoms,  Royalty  and 
Death.  It  was  in  this  same  spirit  that,  in  "  Le 
Temple  Enseveli,"  Maeterlinck  spoke  of  an  event 
which  seemed  to  begin  a  series  of  pitiful  events  as 
"  no  less  tragic  than  that  of  Thyestes,"  and  of  his 
destiny  hovering  "like  an  enormous  vulture"  over 
the  victim.  He  is  easily  carried  away  by  these 
things  into  a  thrilling  but  ultimately  absurd 
eloquence.  Nowhere  is  he  more  completely  carried 
away  than  in  the  essay  in  praise  of  duelling  as 
a  method  of  securing  justice  such  as  no  judge  or 
magistrate  can  enforce.  Nobody  claims  that  any- 
thing more  than  a  stiff  and  indelicate  kind  of 
justice  is  to  be  had  from  the  law,  nor  denies  that  a 
sword  or  other  deadly  weapon  seems,  upon  some 
occasions  and  for  the  moment,  to  some  tempera- 
ments and  in  some  countries,  to  be  likely  to  give 
to  one  party  as  full  a  satisfaction  as  possible. 


248  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Maeterlinck  himself  has  already  pointed  out  in- 
cidentally some  of  its  injustices — for  example,  to 
our  "unlucky"  friend  who  was  a  good  swordsman. 
But  Maeterlinck  likes  the  beauty  of  the  sword — 
he  contrasts  it  with  the  vulgarity  of  the  fist — 
and  he  composes  a  eulogy.  The  sword  decides, 
"  from  the  point  of  view  of  inexplicable  life," 
whether  a  man  is  wrong  or  right.  He  admits 
that  it  might  be  better,  in  most  cases  decided  by 
duelling,  for  the  law  to  intervene,  and  yet  he 
thinks  the  present  state  of  things  good  "  for  those 
capable  of  defending  themselves,"  because  hereby 
initiative  and  personal  character  are  preserved.  This 
man,  who  is  so  sensible  of  the  mystery  and  subtlety 
of  life  and  the  unintelligible  gloom  of  nature,  now 
for  the  sake  of  argument  asserts  that  most  of  the 
wrongs  done  in  the  world  are  due  to  "  the  certainty 
of  impunity  "  and  to  the  superabundance  of  "  good- 
natured  souls  "  in  the  world.  But  this  inconsistency 
is  hardly  to  be  noticed  in  a  piece  of  reckless  and 
occasional  advocacy,  composed  perhaps  in  a  genial 
hour  for  a  society  to  promote  duelling.  The 
sword,  he  points  out,  enables  the  little  man  to 
confront  and  obtain  justice  from  the  enormous 
man.  All  that  is  necessary  is  to  reach  a  general 
average  of  skill.  The  passage  following  is  too 
brilliant  not  to  quote  it  for  those  who  have  not 
great  imagination  or  the  good  fortune  to  dream  in 
the  manner  of  Maeterlinck,  like  my  friend  : 

"  Cette  moyenne  atteinte,  nous  pouvons  confier 
notre  vie  a  la  pointe  de  la  fre"le  mais   redoutable 


"LE   DOUBLE  JARDIN  "  249 

lame.  Elle  est  la  magicienne  qui  e'tablit  aussit6t 
des  rapports  nouveaux  entre  deux  forces  que  nul 
n'aurait  songe"  a  comparer.  Elle  permet  au  nain 
qui  a  raison  de  tenir  tete  au  colosse  qui  a  tort. 
Elle  conduit  gracieusement  sur  des  sommets  plus 
clairs  I'^norme  violence  aux  cornes  de  taureau  ;  et 
voici  que  la  bete  primitive  est  obligee  de  s'arreter 
devant  une  puissance  qui  n'a  plus  rien  de  commun 
avec  les  vertus  basses,  informes  et  tyranniques  de 
la  terre,  je  veux  dire  :  le  poids,  la  masse,  la  quantite", 
la  cohesion  stupide  de  la  matiere.  Entre  elle  et  le 
poing  il  y  a  1'epaisseur  d'un  univers,  un  ocean  de 
siecles  et  presque  la  distance  de  1'animal  a 
1'homme.  Elle  est  fer  et  esprit,  acier  et  intelli- 
gence. Elle  asservit  le  muscle  a  la  pens6e,  et 
contraint  la  pens6e  a  respecter  le  muscle  qui  la 
sert.  Elle  est  ideale  et  positive,  chime"rique  et 
pleine  de  bons  sens.  Elle  est  e"blouissante  et  nette 
comme  l'6clair,  insinuante,  insaisissable  et  multi- 
forme,  comme  un  rayon  de  lune  ou  de  soleil.  Elle 
est  fidele  et  capricieuse,  noblement  rus£e,  loyale- 
ment  perfide.  Elle  fleurit  d'un  sourire  la  rancune 
et  la  haine.  Elle  transfigure  la  brutalite\  Grace  a 
elle,  comme  par  un  fe"erique  pont  suspendu  sur 
1'abime  de  t^nebres,  la  raison,  le  courage,  1'assur- 
ance  du  bon  droit,  la  patience,  le  me*pris  du  danger, 
le  sacrifice  a  1'amour,  a  I'id^e — tout  un  monde 
moral,  entre  en  maitre  dans  le  chaos  originel, 
le  dompte  et  1'organise.  Elle  est,  par  excellence, 
1'arme  de  1'homme  ;  celle  qui,  toutes  les  autres 
e"prouv6es  et  elle-m£me  inconnue,  devrait  £tre 
invented,  parce  qu'elle  sert  le  mieux  les  faculte"s 
les  plus  diverses,  les  plus  purement  humaines,  et 
qu'elle  est  1'instrument  le  plus  direct,  le  plus  mani- 
able  et  le  plus  loyal  de  son  intelligence,  de  sa  force 
et  de  sa  justice  defensives." 


as©  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Maeterlinck  concludes  that  the  swords  force  the 
destinies  of  the  two  duellists  to  judge  them.  What 
he  means  is  that,  if  a  man  dies  by  his  opponent's 
sword,  his  death  was  inevitable  :  he  may  not  have 
been  wrong  in  the  matter  which  was  being  decided, 
but  on  the  whole  he  must  have  been  in  the  wrong 
because  his  unconsciousness  has  not  found  a  way 
of  saving  him.  "  Life,"  as  he  has  said  elsewhere, "  life 
is  right." 

The  essay  on  chrysanthemums  is  of  a  like 
eloquence.  He  loves  the  chrysanthemum  and 
takes  a  "  brother's  interest "  in  it  because  of  its 
singular  submissiveness  to  the  perverse  multipli- 
cation of  forms.  He  concludes  by  saying  that 
"  perhaps,"  "  if"  plants  are  to  reveal  "  one  of  the 
worlds  that  we  are  awaiting,"  the  chrysanthemum 
will  do  it  as  the  dog  will  "  probably  "  reveal  another. 
But  for  this  passage  the  essay  would  be  an  entirely 
brilliant  specimen  of  the  studied  rhapsodies  of 
description  which  he  began  in  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles." 
For  the  most  part  these  descriptions  are  sensuous, 
and  devoted  to  the  very  surfaces  of  beautiful  or 
sublime  objects  ;  but  they  owe  part  of  their  quality 
to  a  highly  characteristic,  quite  unmistakable  use 
of  the  pathetic  fallacy.  Every  one  will  recognize 
Maeterlinck  in  the  comparison  of  the  rare  pink  of 
chrysanthemums  with  that  on  the  lips  and  brows 
of  a  "  veiled  and  afflicted  virgin  praying  on  a  tomb." 
The  chapters  on  field-flowers  and  old-fashioned 
garden  flowers  are  perfect  examples  of  this  de- 
scriptive work.  As  in  all  his  writings,  the  soft, 
sensuous  grace  is  unmitigated  except  by  astonishing 


"LE   DOUBLE  JARDIN  "  251 

brilliancy.  Though  so  fine,  and  probably  studied, 
these  essays  are  very  simple,  being  no  more  than 
a  chain  of  beautiful  details,  wrought  with  no 
pattern,  but  gaining  such  unity  as  they  have  from 
a  lively,  aesthetic  impetus  and  from  the  slightest 
and  most  picturesque  of  reflections.  The  essay  on 
field-flowers  is  hardly  more  than  a  number  of  old, 
pretty  names  and  a  still  greater  number  of  adjec- 
tives almost  as  pretty.  At  the  end  of  one  chain  of 
names  he  writes : 

"  On  recite  un  poeme  de  grace  et  de  lumiere  en 
les  enumerant  On  leur  a  reserv6  les  sons  les  plus 
aimables,  les  plus  purs,  les  plus  clairs  et  toute 
1'allegresse  musicale  de  la  langue.  On  dirait  les 
dramatis  persona,  les  coryphees  et  les  figu- 
rantes d'une  immense  feerie,  plus  belle,  plus 
imprevue  et  plus  surnaturelle  que  celles  qui 
se  deroulent  dans  1'isle  de  ProspeVo,  a  la  cour  de 
Th6s£e  ou  dans  la  foret  des  Ardennes.  Et  les 
jolies  actrices  de  la  comedie  muette  et  infinie : 
deesses,  anges,  demones,  princesses  et  sorcieres, 
vierges  et  courtisanes,  reines  et  pastourelles,  portent 
aux  plis  de  leurs  noms  le  magique  reflet  d'innom- 
brables  aurores,  d'innombrables  printemps  con- 
temples  par  des  hommes  oublies,  comme  elles  y 
portent  aussi  le  souvenir  de  milliers  d'emotions 
profondes  ou  legeres  qu'eprouverent  devant  elles 
des  generations  disparues  sans  laisser  d'autre 
trace." 

He  is  as  courtly  as  Herrick,  and  as  dainty  and 
lacking  in  wildness.  Whether  he  writes  of  garden 
or  field  he  never  suggests  anything  but  the  delicacy 


252  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

of  the  Jwrtus  indusus  and  the  conservatory.  For, 
in  spite  of  his  feeling  for  the  majesty  of  mysterious 
Nature,  he  could  never  write,  like  Mr.  VV.  H. 
Hudson,  of  the  "mysterious,  unheard-of  retributions 
that  revengeful  deity  Nature  "  may  meditate  against 
those  who  have  spoiled  "  her  ancient,  beautiful 
order."  He  likes  flowers,  above  all,  for  their  long 
human  associations.  He  bids  us  consider  how 
much  we  should  lose  in  expressing  happiness  if  we 
had  not  flowers  to  help  us  : 

"  Une  des  cimes  be"nies  de  notre  ame  serait 
presque  muette  si  les  fleurs,  depuis  des  siecles, 
n'avaient  alimente*  de  leur  beaute  la  langue  que 
nous  parlons  et  les  pens6es  qui  tentent  de  fixer  les 
heures  les  plus  pr^cieuses  de  la  vie.  Tout  le 
vocabulaire,  toutes  les  impressions  de  1'amour  sont 
imprdgnes  de  leur  haleine,  nourris  de  leur  sourire. 
Quand  nous  aimons,  les  souvenirs  de  toutes  les 
fleurs  que  nous  avons  vues  et  respites,  accourent 
peupler  de  leurs  delices  reconnues  la  conscience 
d'un  sentiment  dont  le  bonheur,  sans  elles,  n'aurait 
plus  de  forme  que  1'horizon  de  la  mer  ou  du  ciel. 
Elles  ont  accumule"  en  nous,  depuis  notre  enfance, 
et  des  avant  celle-ci,  dans  1'ame  de  nos  peres,  un 
immense  tre"sor,  le  plus  proche  de  nos  joies,  oil 
nous  aliens  puiser,  chaque  fois  que  nous  voulons 
nous  rendre  plus  sensibles  les  minutes  cle'mentes 
de  la  vie.  Elles  ont  cre"e"  et  repandu  dans  notre 
monde  sentimental  1'atmosphere  odorante  ou  se 
complait  1'amour." 

In  none  of  his  work  so  much  as  in  these  de- 
scriptions can   his   Flemish   brightness,  precision, 


"LE  DOUBLE  JARDIN"  253 

and  domesticity  be  seen.  We  have  nothing  in  our 
literature  that  can  be  more  nearly  compared  with 
them  than  the  "  Frondes  Agrestes "  and  "  Love's 
Meinie  "  of  Ruskin  ;  but  Maeterlinck's  essays  have 
a  gaiety  and  simple  sensuousness  which  these 
have  not. 


XVI 

"  L'INTELLIGENCE   DES  FLEURS  " 

THREE  years  after  "  Le  Double  Jardin,"  in 
1907,  "  L'Intelligence  des  Fleurs  "  was  pub- 
lished. In  the  English  translation,  entitled  "  Life 
and  Flowers,"  the  essay  on  Rome,  which  was  ex- 
cluded from  "The  Double  Garden,"  now  appears. 
In  addition  there  are  essays  on  the  various  instru- 
ments for  measuring  time,  on  immortality,  war, 
social  duty,  "  L'Inquie'tude  de  notre  Morale,"  the 
psychology  of  accident,  boxing,  "  King  Lear,"  the 
intelligence  of  flowers,  and  on  scents  and  their 
manufacture.  The  volume  resembles  its  prede- 
cessor in  variety  of  subject  and  uniformity  of  tone. 
On  any  page  may  be  found  a  phrase  which  sug- 
gests the  whole  book.  For  example,  I  might  take, 
as  the  keynote,  two  sentences  at  the  opening  of 
"  L'Inquie'tude  de  notre  Morale."  In  one  he 
speaks  of  the  "great  truth,"  that  it  is  the  duty  ot 
those  who  have  to  reduce  themselves  to  the  con- 
dition of  those  who  have  not  ;  in  the  other  he  says 
that  this  is  an  "  absolute  impossibility."  Well  may 
he  speak  in  this  essay  of  examining  the  question 
like  "  the  unbiased  denizen  "  of  another  planet. 
254 


"L'INTELLIGENCE  DES  FLEURS  "      255 

But  he  is  not  solely  this.  As  in  all  the  later 
essays,  he  frequently  shows  himself  very  much  an 
inhabitant  of  this  world.  The  combination  is  a 
remarkable  one,  and  it  produces  what  appears  to 
be  this — worldly  thoughts  and  descriptions  some- 
how mysticized.  The  true  inwardness  of  eating 
bread  and  cheese  and  pickled  shallots  and  drinking 
a  pint  of  stout  would  not  be  a  surprising  subject 
for  this  mystic  man  of  the  world. 

"  L'Intelligence  des  Fleurs "  shows  him  ex- 
perimenting for  nearly  four  years  in  the  hybridiza- 
tion of  different  kinds  of  sage ;  having  his  first 
"  satisfying  vision  of  happiness "  in  a  country 
where  nothing  is  cultivated  but  flowers  for  making 
scents  ;  and  admiring  "a  certain  magnificent  oak" 
so  much  that  he  says  it  would  not  be  out  of  place 
in  any  paradise  or  after-life  imaginable.  He  is 
still,  as  in  "  Le  Double  Jardin,"  fundamentally 
at  ease  with  himself  and  such  of  the  world  as 
he  must  or  chooses  to  see.  He  preserves  the 
same  starry  urbanity  when  he  remarks  that  it 
would  be  "  interesting  to  calculate "  whether  a 
sudden  bloody  revolution  would  involve  more  or 
fewer  evils  than  a  slow,  nagging  one  ;  and,  having 
made  the  remark,  he  passes  on  to  point  out,  in  the 
same  tones,  that  the  human  race  now  "  seems  to  be 
in  the  decisive  phase  of  its  evolution  "  ;  but  let  it 
always  be  borne  in  mind  that  Maeterlinck  is  per- 
sonally a  kindly  and  charitable  man.  Perhaps  a 
new  reason  for  his  comfortableness  is  that  he  now 
perceives  that  we  are  not  after  all  "  miraculous, 
unparalleled,  and  marvellously  incidental  beings  " 


256  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

in  an  alien  earth,  as  we  used  proudly  to  think,  but 
that  in  reality  we  follow  "  the  same  road  as  the 
soul  of  this  great  world,"  where  we  are  quite  in 
place.  This  marks  almost  a  revolution  in  his 
thought,  but  he  makes  no  comment  whatever  upon 
it.  Observation  of  the  ways  and  thoughts  of 
flowers  has  taught  him  to  believe  this,  and  the 
lessons  of  the  flowers  may,  he  thinks,  be  as  nothing 
compared  with  those  to  come  from  the  mountains, 
the  sea,  and  the  stars  : 

"  Ils  nous  permettent  n6anmoins  de  pre"sumer 
avec  plus  d'assurance  que  1'esprit  qui  anime  toutes 
choses  ou  se  d^gage  d'elles  est  la  meme  essence 
que  celui  qui  anime  notre  corps.  S'il  nous  res- 
semble,  si  nous  lui  ressemblons  ainsi,  si  tout  ce  qui 
se  trouve  en  lui,  se  retrouve  en  nous-m£mes,  s'il 
emploie  nos  me"thodes,  s'il  a  nos  habitudes,  nos 
preoccupations,  nos  tendances,  nos  desirs  vers  le 
mieux,  est-il  illogique  d'espeVer  tout  ce  que  nous 
esp^rons  instinctivement,  invinciblement,  puisqu'il 
est  presque  certain  qu'il  1'espere  aussi  ?  Est-il 
vraisemblable,  quand  nous  trouvons  Sparse  dans 
la  vie  une  telle  somme  d'intelligence,  que  cette 
vie  ne  fasse  pas  oeuvre  d'intelligence,  c'est-a-dire 
ne  poursuive  une  fin  de  bonheur,  de  perfection,  de 
victoire  sur  ce  que  nous  appelons  le  mal,  la  mort, 
les  tenebres,  le  ne"ant,  qui  n'est  probablement  que 
1'ombre  de  sa  face  ou  son  propre  sommeil  ?  " 


No  one  who  has  followed  Maeterlinck's  develop- 
ment will  fail  to  see  that  here  is,  or  should  be,  a 
prodigious  access  of  reason  for  optimism  ;  no  one 


"L'INTELLIGENCE   UES   FLEURS"      257 

will  fail  to  notice,  and  few  will  be  surprised,  that 
the  new  idea  is  one  of  those  which  are  "purely 
ideas  "  to  him.  All  now  is  right  with  the  world. 
But  what  matters  it  ?  Maeterlinck  is  on  another 
planet. 

He  is,  however,  as  willing  as  ever  to  think  of  the 
case  of  mortals,  and  particularly  of  those  to  whom 
the  old  religions  of  the  earth  consciously  mean 
nothing.  He  assumes,  perhaps  rashly,  that  we  are 
in  an  exceptional  position — i.e.  that  we  are  aban- 
doning one  religion  and  have  no  other  before  us 
— though  it  is  by  no  means  certain,  first,  that 
many  pagans  of  the  last  three  or  four  centuries 
before  Christ  were  not  in  a  similar  position  ;  and, 
second,  that  we  are  not  really  entering  another 
religion  half  consciously,  as  pagan  souls,  naturaliter 
Christiana,  must  often  have  done.  He  also  exag- 
gerates our  "  feverish  elaboration  "  of  a  premature 
morality  to  take  the  place  of  religion.  It  is  true 
that  we  discuss  our  morality  more  than  ever, 
because  we  are  more  self-conscious  ;  but  in  the 
morality  that  is  really  valid,  that  which  controls 
our  acts  and  our  judgments  of  things  near  us,  we 
are,  with  a  difference,  what  men  have  been  for 
some  time,  heirs  of  Christianity  and  of  paganism. 
In  spite  of  Nietzsche,  we  do  not  really  ask  ourselves 
if  we  are  not  dupes  by  practising  a  "  noble 
morality  "  in  a  world  which — as  Maeterlinck  still 
says — "  obeys  other  laws  "  ;  or,  if  we  ask  this,  we 
act  without  reference  to  the  question,  and  as  if  it 
had  never  been  put.  Maeterlinck  himself  sees  that 
we  have,  in  our  "  mystic  reason,"  a  possession 


258  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

perhaps  equivalent  to  a  religion.  What  he  means 
by  this  may  be  gathered  from  any  book  of  his 
essays,  from  the  first  to  the  last ;  but  here  in  the 
essay  on  our  anxious  morality  he  again  makes  it 
clear : 

"  C'est  dans  notre  raison,  consciente  ou  non,  que 
se  forme  notre  morale.  On  pourrait,  a  ce  point  de 
vue,  y  marquer  trois  regions.  Tout  au  bas,  la 
partie  la  plus  lourde,  la  plus  epaisse  et  la  plus 
gene"rale,  que  nous  appellerons  le  '  sens  commun.' 
Un  peu  plus  haut,  s'elevant  de"ja  aux  idees  d'utilite 
et  de  jouissance  immate'rielles,  ce  qu'on  pourrait 
nommer  le  '  bon  sens,'  et  enfin,  au  sommet,  admet- 
tant,  mais  contrdlant  aussi  se'verement  que  possible 
les  revendications  de  I'imagination,  des  sentiments 
et  de  tout  ce  qui  relie  notre  vie  consciente  a 
1'inconsciente  et  aux  forces  inconnues  du  dedans 
et  du  dehors,  la  partie  indetermine'e  de  cette  m6me 
raison  totale  a  laquelle  nous  donnerons  le  nom  de 
'  raison  mystique.' " 

He  sees  the  "  mystic  reason  "  offered  to  the  "  good 
sense "  of  a  scientific  age,  here  again  perhaps 
exaggerating  the  novelty  of  "  good  sense,"  which 
must  be  a  kind  of  wisdom  used  since  very  ancient 
times  by  persons  without  imagination,  and  even  by 
those  with  it  when  they  themselves  were  not 
immediately  concerned.  Good  sense  tends  pro- 
bably to  advance  by  additions  from  the  mystic 
reason,  and  the  difference  between  the  good  sense 
of  1911  and  1811  gives  this  probability  much  sup- 
port. Maeterlinck  himself  believes  in  a  spiritual 
wave,  with  ebbs  and  flows,  "  which  seems  slowly  to 


"  ^INTELLIGENCE  DES  FLEURS"      259 

overtake  and  conquer  we  know  not  what  in  space," 
but  does  not  think  that  the  average  of  goodness 
was  raised  by  the  movements  in  the  Middle  Ages 
when  faith  was  strong  with  a  certainty  like  that  of 
"  our  scientific  certainties."  And  at  last  he  pleads 
for  the  preservation  of  a  few  "  fancy  pictures," 
herein  reminding  us  of  the  poet's  speech  in  Mr. 
W.  B.  Yeats's  "  King's  Threshold  "  : 

If  you  are  a  poet, 

Cry  out  that  the  king's  money  would  not  buy, 
Nor  the  high  circle  consecrate  his  head, 
If  poets  had  never  christened  gold,  and  even 
The  moon's  poor  daughter,  that  most  whey-faced  metal, 
Precious :   and  cry  out  that  none  alive 
Would  ride  among  the  arrows  with  high  heart, 
Or  scatter  with  an  open  hand,  had  not 
Our  heady  craft  commended  wasteful  virtues. 

If  we  are  no  longer  to  be  saints  and  martyrs,  says 
Maeterlinck,  we  have  need  of  their  spirit,  and  he 
ends  in  confidence  : 

"  Ce  ne  sont  point  les  religions  qui  ont  forme 
cet  ideal  ;  mais  bien  celui-ci  qui  a  donne"  naissance 
aux  religions.  Ces  dernieres  affaiblies  ou  disparues, 
leurs  sources  subsistent  qui  cherchent  un  autre  cours. 
Tout  compte  fait,  a  la  reserve  de  certaines  vertus 
factices  et  parasites  qu'on  abandonne  naturellement 
au  tournant  de  la  plupart  des  cultes,  il  n'y  a  encore 
rien  a  changer  a  notre  vieil  ideal  aryen  de  justice, 
de  conscience,  de  courage,  de  bonte"  et  d'honneur. 
II  n'y  a  qu'a  s'en  rapprocher  davantage,  a  le  serrer 
de  plus  pres,  £  le  re"aliser  plus  efficacement ;  et 


a6o  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

avant  de  le  depasser,  nous  avons  une  longue  et 
noble  route  k  parcourir  sous  les  e*toiles." 

In  this  way,  as  elsewhere,  he  advocates  the 
instinct,  the  imagination,  the  unconsciousness,  by 
means  of  the  intelligence  which  he  esteems  so  far 
beneath  them  ;  he  is,  in  fact,  trying  to  persuade  the 
intelligence  to  encourage  its  superior,  to  prove  that 
there  is  a  higher  expediency  in  what  may  seem  to 
it  inexpedient.  Nowhere  is  his  use  of  the  pure 
reason  more  remarkable  than  in  the  essay  on 
immortality.  He  has  not  one  profound  intimation 
or  conviction  with  which  to  support  his  argument. 
He  begins  by  reminding  us  that  nothing  can 
perish.  We  are  bound  to  survive,  but  can  the 
manner  of  the  survival  be  of  any  comfort  or  pride  ? 
What  we  wish  to  survive  is  that  part  of  us  "  which 
used  to  perceive  phenomena  "  when  we  were  alive. 
If  that  goes  we  shall  not  know  that  we  are.  Yet 
this  desire  he  compares  with  that  of  a  sick  man  to 
continue  in  his  sickness  lest  he  should  not  recognize 
himself.  He  asks  us  to  think  of  a  man  who  is 
blind,  paralysed,  and  deaf,  but  dreading  death  with 
a  great  despair  ;  and  to  suppose  that,  by  a  miracle, 
he  could  suddenly  see  and  hear  the  glory  of  the 
earth  and  move  amidst  it.  "  At  what  corner  of  his 
past"  will  this  man  "clutch  to  continue  his 
identity"?  Yet  something — "some  sense  or  in- 
stinct " — would  tell  him  that  he  was  the  man  who 
was  blind,  paralysed,  and  deaf.  The  power  by 
which  he  would  know  this  is  lost  in  sleep,  in  pain, 
in  intoxication,  in  moments  of  self-forgetfulness. 


"  L'INTELLIGENCE   DES   FLEURS  "      261 

In  eternity  should  we  not  be  loth,  like  Christopher 
Sly,  "  to  fall  into  our  dreams  again  " — so  Maeter- 
linck asks ;  and  he  asks,  too,  if  many  would  not  be 
glad  to  accept  a  sleep  of  a  hundred  years  with 
the  certainty  of  awaking  at  the  end  of  it.  Yet 
between  this  and  death  there  would  be  small 
difference.  Also  he  reminds  us  that  many  do  not 
despair  when  they  see  others,  or  think  of  them- 
selves, in  the  abeyance  of  our  mental  and  physical 
faculties  in  old  age,  or  even  when  they  consider  the 
disintegration  of  the  body.  He  then  reminds  us  of 
some  of  the  "  irrefutable  "  proofs  that  something 
does  continue  in  some  cases  for  a  time  after  death. 
Also,  if  we  do  not  perish  we  have  lived  before,  yet 
we  do  not  remember  it,  and  the  uncertainty  of  it 
is  indifferent  to  us.  He  suggests  that  there  is  an- 
other consciousness  which  may  be  part  of  us  before 
and  after  life,  etc.  It  is  entered  in  moments  when — 

"  II  demeure  en  nous  quelque  chose  d'absolument 
d^sinteresse"  qui  goute  le  bonheur  d'autrui.  N'est-il 
pas  e"galement  possible  que  les  joies  sans  but  de 
1'art,  la  satisfaction  calme  et  pleine  oil  nous  plonge 
la  contemplation  d'une  belle  statue,  d'un  monument 
parfait,  qui  ne  nous  appartient  pas,  que  nous  ne 
reverrons  jamais,  qui  n'excite  aucun  desir  sensuel, 
qui  ne  peut  nous  etre  d'aucune  utilite ;  n'est-il  pas 
possible  que  cette  satisfaction  soit  la  pale  lueur 
d'une  conscience  differente  qui  filtre  a  travers  une 
fissure  de  notre  conscience  mnemonique  ?  " 

This  is  his  nearest  approach  to  an  intuition,  that 
there  may  be  an  existence  accessible,  even  during 


262  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

life,  which  is  "more  spacious"  than  that  of  our 
ordinary  consciousness,  as  if  we  had — 

The  cloudy  winds  to  keep 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 

Let  us  admit  this  possibility,  and  strive  to  know 
what  it  is  in  us  that  will  survive.  This  is  no  more 
than  Richard  Jefferies'  belief  in  "a  whole  world  of 
ideas  outside  and  beyond  those  which  now  exercise 
us  "  ;  to  cultivate  the  soul  because,  so  long  as  it  lives, 
"  it  matters  not  if  the  entire  material  world  dis- 
appears." Jefferies  in  a  passionate,  if  imperfect, 
mystic  ecstasy,  prayed  for  "  the  deepest  of  soul- 
life,  the  deepest  of  all,  deeper  far  than  all  this 
greatness  of  the  visible  universe,  and  even  of  the 
invisible."  He,  like  Maeterlinck,  hated  asceticism. 
He,  like  Maeterlinck,  thought  that  there  were  other 
alternatives  than  the  sequence  of  cause  and  effect. 
He  also  exhorted  men  "  to  do  their  utmost  to 
think  outside  and  beyond  our  present  circle  of 
ideas."  He  also  marvelled  that  until  now  the  soul, 
"  the  keenest,  the  sharpest  tool  possessed  by  man," 
had  been  left  uncultivated.  He  felt  a  sympathy 
in  the  universe  when  he  wrote  :  "  The  sea  thinks 
for  me  as  I  listen  and  ponder  :  the  sea  thinks,  and 
every  boom  of  the  wave  repeats  my  prayer " — a 
feeling  which  Maeterlinck  does  not  reveal.  His 
passionate  autobiography  has  a  force  almost 
equalling  a  revelation  :  Maeterlinck's  essay  is  a 
subtle  and  eloquent  recommending  of  a  cool 
possibility. 

He  treats  another  favourite  subject  with  all  his 


11  L'INTELLIGENCE  DES  FLEURS  "      263 

usual  adroitness  and  subtlety  in  an  essay  on  the 
psychology  of  accident.  It  is  an  elaboration  of 
the  idea  suggested  by  the  fact  that  a  child  or 
a  drunken  man  falls  with  less  danger  to  himself 
than  a  sober  man  who  tries  to  save  himself  by  his 
intelligence.  He  believes  that  we  are  losing  this 
admirable  instinct,  and  that  a  workman  has  more 
chances  than  his  educated  employer  if  both  are  in 
the  same  physical  disaster.  Here  again  he  pro- 
poses that  by  "  special  study  "  the  instinct  should 
be  educated  and  restored.  He  makes  no  sugges- 
tion as  to  how  this  can  come  to  pass.  To  educate 
the  instinct  by  means  of  a  power  which  is  over- 
coming it,  and  is  jealous  of  it,  may  be  a  difficult  task  ; 
and  in  the  course  of  the  essay  a  story  is  told  to 
show  how  fatal  may  be  this  interference  of  the 
intelligence  with  the  instinct.  A  cart  full  of  women 
was  rushing  down  a  precipitous  hill,  apparently  to 
certain  ruin,  and  one  woman  thought  to  save  at 
least  her  child  by  throwing  it  out.  The  cart  fell 
over  the  precipice,  but  the  women  were  all  saved 
by  the  bushes  on  the  face  of  the  cliff :  only  the 
child  was  killed  by  its  fall  on  the  wayside.  The 
instinct  of  the  women  saved  them  ;  the  intelligent 
forethought  of  the  mother  destroyed  her  child. 
Such  is  Maeterlinck's  account  of  the  matter,  and 
very  good  it  is  ;  but  a  few  qualifications  should  be 
added.  First,  it  was  the  venerable  maternal 
instinct  which  interrupted  the  still  older  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  and  caused  the  mother  to  throw 
out  the  child.  Second,  it  might  well  have  been 
expected  that  the  child  would  fall  right  by  instinct. 


264  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Third,  if  the  woman  had  fallen  over  the  cliff  with 
the  child  in  her  arms,  it  is  likely  that  the  burden 
would  have  prevented  her  from  acting  perfectly 
according  to  instinct,  and  both  would  have 
perished.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  essay  he 
makes  a  statement  which  may  be  compared  with 
his  new  view  that  man  and  nature  have  the 
same  methods  and  aims.  He  points  out  that,  in 
an  earthquake  or  a  thunderstorm,  or  the  fall  of  a 
tree,  an  animal  rather  than  a  man  will  be  struck. 
This  he  oddly  attributes  first  to  man's  reason  and 
"  more  prudent  instinct,"  and  finally  to  the  fact 
that  nature  "  seems  to  be  afraid  of  man,"  sur- 
rounding him  "  with  a  sort  of  manifest  and 
unaccountable  respect."  If  this  were  not  a  mere 
bland  extravagance,  Maeterlinck's  thought  would 
have  followed  very  different  lines.  Compare  with 
this  another  but  more  excusable  extravagance,  in 
a  rhapsody  of  pure  rhetoric,  on  the  "  Gods  of 
War,"  viz.  melinite,  dynamite,  panelastite,  cordite, 
etc.  Thinking  of  these,  he  says  that  man  has 
abdicated  ;  his  reign  is  over;  he  is  at  the  mercy  of 
these  "  monstrous  and  enigmatic  powers."  But, 
except  De  Quincey  or  Victor  Hugo,  perhaps  no 
other  could  have  written  it. 

The  essay  in  praise  of  boxing  must  rank  with 
that  in  praise  of  the  sword  for  ingenuity.  It  was 
written  for  the  summer  holidays,  when  it  is  fitting 
"  to  occupy  ourselves  with  the  aptitudes  of  our 
body,  once  more  restored  to  nature."  He  admits 
that,  in  writing  of  the  sword,  his  subject  carried 
him  away  into  an  injustice  to  the  fist.  The  fist  is, 


"  ^INTELLIGENCE   DES   FLEURS  "      265 

he  says,  our  natural  weapon,  like  the  bull's  horns, 
and  a  wiser  race  would  make  it  the  only  legal 
weapon,  which  would  bring  about  "  a  sort  of  panic- 
stricken  respect  of  human  life."  He  paints  a 
picture  of  a  skilled  boxer  serene  among  enemies 
who  cannot  box :  "  The  grossest  insult  cannot 
impair  his  indulgent  smile,"  and  if  he  is  forced  to 
use  his  power  against  "  the  most  powerful  brute,"  it 
is  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  a  regret  for  the  "  too- 
easy  victory."  This  is  by  far  the  most  genial  and 
amusing  thing  Maeterlinck  has  ever  written,  but  it 
leaves  a  doubt  as  to  whether  it  was  meant  to  be 
amusing.  There  is  equal  ingenuity  in  the  essay  on 
sundials,  clocks,  etc.,  and  a  graceful  rhetoric  which 
he  has  nowhere  excelled.  The  following  page  is 
one  of  the  best  from  his  contemplative-descriptive 
writings : 

"  La  pendule,  le  sablier,  la  clepsydre  perdue 
donnent  des  heures  abstraites,  sans  forme  et  sans 
visage.  Ce  sont  les  instruments  du  temps  ane'mie' 
de  nos  chambres,  du  temps  esclave  et  prisonnier  ; 
mais  le  cadran  solaire  nous  revele  1'ombre  reelle 
et  palpitante  de  1'aile  du  grand  dieu  qui  plane  dans 
1'azur.  Autour  du  plateau  de  marbre  qui  orne  la 
terrasse  ou  le  carrefour  des  larges  avenues  et  qui 
s'harmonise  si  bien  aux  escaliers  majestueux,  aux 
balustrades  eployees,  aux  murailles  de  verdure  des 
charmilles  profondes,  nous  jouissons  de  la  presence 
fugitive  mais  irrecusable  des  heures  radieuses.  Qui 
sut  apprendre  a  les  discerner  dans  1'espace,  les 
verra  tour  a  tour  toucher  terre  et  se  pencher  sur 
1'autel  mysterieux  pour  faire  un  sacrifice  au  dieu 
que  1'homme  honore  mais  ne  peut  pas  connaitre. 


266  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

II  les  verra  s'avancer  en  robes  diverses  et 
changeantes,  couronn^es  de  fruits,  de  fleurs  ou  de 
rosee  :  d'abord  celles  encore  diaphanes  et  a  peine 
visibles  de  1'aube ;  puis  leurs  sceurs  de  midi, 
ardentes,  cruelles,  resplendissantes,  presque  im- 
placables,  et  enfin  les  dernieres  du  crepuscule, 
lentes  et  somptueuses,  que  retarde,  dans  leur  marche 
vers  la  nuit  qui  s'approche,  1'ombre  empourpree  des 
arbres." 

The  long  chapter  on  the  intelligence  of  flowers 
is  another  exercise  of  the  same  kind.  He  says 
that  he  is  merely  going  to  recall  "  a  few  facts 
known  to  every  botanist,"  but  he  proceeds  to 
describe  some  of  the  adventures  of  plant-life  in 
such  a  way  that  the  description  is  an  argument  for 
the  intelligence  of  the  plants.  One  plant  has 
"  discovered,"  another  has  "  calculated  "  ;  one  is 
"  restless,"  another  is  "  thoughtless."  The  pre- 
sumption of  these  words  must  be  held  unpardon- 
able until  it  is  believed,  as  well  as  stated  in  cold 
blood,  that  man's  equipment  and  destiny  are  not 
singular  among  living  things.  Maeterlinck  finds 
it  consoling  to  observe  that  we  follow  the  same 
road  as  the  plants,  "  as  the  soul  of  this  great 
world."  The  term  "  mystic  "  is  not  to  be  dwelt  on 
too  seriously,  because  it  is  now  in  an  advanced 
stage  of  popular  corruption.  Yet  the  acceptance 
of  science  by  a  man  to  whom  it  is  widely  applied 
is  remarkable.  Maeterlinck  is  the  first  "  mystic," 
though  not  the  first  mystical  writer,  to  appear  in 
the  age  of  science;  and  he  is  all  the  more  important 
because  he  really  belongs  to  the  age.  He  is  not, 


"  L'INTELLIGENCE   DES  FLEURS  "      267 

however,  always  a  mystic  and  a  man  of  science  at 
once,  and  there  are  times  when  he  seems  to  be 
striving  to  look  at  scientific  facts  in  a  poetical 
manner.  Thus  some  of  his  passages  are  simply 
science  in  fancy  dress.  Yet  his  descriptions  can 
be  masterly,  more  brief  and  precise  at  their  best 
than  those  of  Ruskin,  with  which  alone  they  can 
be  compared. 


XVII 

"  L'OISEAU  BLEU  " 

THE  English  translation  of  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu  " 
appeared  in  1909,  before  its  original,  and 
was  soon  afterwards  charmingly  performed  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre  in  London,  with  scenery 
which  was  for  the  most  part  brilliantly  apt.  The 
woodcutter's  children,  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl,  lie  in  bed 
dreaming  on  Christmas  Eve,  but,  appearing  to 
wake,  they  get  up  and  watch  the  party  in  the 
great  house  opposite,  which  they  enjoy  as  if  they 
were  of  it.  There  is  a  knock  at  the  cottage  door, 
and  an  old  hunch-backed  woman  enters,  rather 
like  their  neighbour,  Madame  Berlingot.  She 
wants  the  Blue  Bird  for  her  little  sick  daughter, 
and  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  are  to  find  it  for  her.  She 
is  the  fairy  Be'rylune,  and  gives  Tyltyl  a  green  hat 
and  the  magic  diamond  :  "  One  turn,  you  see  the 
inside  of  things.  .  .  .  One  more,  and  you  behold 
the  past.  .  .  .  Another,  and  you  behold  the  future." 
Tyltyl  turns  the  diamond,  and  the  fairy  becomes  a 
princess  of  marvellous  beauty,  and  all  things  are 
resplendent.  The  Hours  trip  out  of  the  tall  grand- 
father's clock  and  begin  to  dance  to  delicious  music 

368 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  269 

The  souls  of  the  loaves,  of  the  fire,  of  the  dog,  and 
of  the  cat  appear.  The  dog  is  enthusiastic  at  this 
release,  the  cat  circumspect.  The  soul  of  water 
comes  from  the  tap  and  fights  with  fire,  and  the 
souls  of  milk,  sugar,  and  light  appear.  At  a  knock 
on  the  door,  Tyltyl  turns  the  diamond,  and  the 
enchantment  is  gone.  Fire,  Bread,  Water,  Sugar, 
Milk,  Light,  and  Tylo  the  Dog  and  Tylette  the 
Cat  remain  to  accompany  the  children.  All  go 
out  through  the  window,  and  Daddy  and  Mummy 
Tyl,  entering,  believe  their  children  asleep. 

In  the  Fairy's  palace  all  receive  their  dresses. 
The  Cat  rebels.  The  Dog  is  for  Man,  and  so 
is  Light,  who  is  to  lead  the  guest.  First  they  visit 
the  Land  of  Memory,  and  see  Granny  and  Gaffer 
Tyl,  who  tell  them  :  "  Every  time  you  think  of  us, 
we  wake  up  and  see  you."  Tyltyl  notices  that  the 
old  blackbird  in  the  cage  is  quite  blue,  and  Gaffer 
agrees  to  give  it  to  them.  Their  dead  brothers 
and  sisters  run  out  of  the  cottage,  they  play  and 
sup  together,  but  a  clock  strikes  and  the  two  have 
to  go — the  bird  has  turned  black  again.  In  the 
Palace  of  Night  the  Cat  asks  Night  to  keep  them 
from  finding  the  Blue  Bird,  "hidden  here,  among 
the  blue  birds  and  the  dreams  .  .  .  that  die  as  soon 
as  they  set  eyes  on  the  sun."  The  children,  Bread, 
Sugar,  and  the  Dog  timidly  enter  and  find  Night, 
Sleep,  and  Death.  In  cave  after  cave  they  dis- 
cover the  Ghosts,  the  Sicknesses,  the  Wars,  the 
Shades  and  Terrors,  Silence  and  the  Mysteries, 
the  Stars,  Perfumes  of  Night,  Will-o'-th'- Wisps, 
Fireflies,  Transparent  Dew,  and  at  last  a  dream- 


270  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

garden  with  many  blue  birds.  The  children  take 
away  some  of  these,  but  when  Light  enters  they 
droop  and  die,  and  Tyltyl  flings  them  down  and 
cries.  In  the  Forest  the  Cat  conspires  with  the 
Trees  against  the  children  before  they  and  the  Dog 
enter.  When  the  diamond  is  turned  the  trees' 
souls  appear.  A  blue  bird  is  perched  on  the  Oak, 
who  denounces  Man  and  calls  on  the  Animals. 
At  the  Cat's  suggestion  the  Dog  is  bound  up  by 
Ivy  to  the  Oak  because  he  has  threatened  it.  None 
of  the  trees  will  attack  Tyltyl,  and  the  war  is 
left  to  the  Animals.  The  Dog  and  Light  save  the 
children  in  the  battle,  and,  Tyltyl  turning  the 
diamond,  the  Forest  is  once  more  harmless.  Light 
says :  "  You  see  Man  is  alone  against  all  in  this 
world." 

After  this  sinister  forest  scene  Maeterlinck  has 
introduced  two  most  genial  scenes  at  the  suggestion 
of  Mr.  Herbert  Trench.  "  I  believe  we  have  the 
Blue  Bird  this  time,"  says  Light,  on  approaching 
the  Palace  of  Happiness.  Here  they  meet  the 
Luxuries — the  Luxury  of  Being  Rich,  the  Luxury 
of  Being  a  Landowner,  the  Luxury  of  Knowing 
Nothing,  the  Luxury  of  Understanding  Nothing, 
and  so  on.  But  the  Luxury  of  Being  Rich  tells 
Tyltyl  that  the  Blue  Bird  "is  a  bird  that  is  not 
good  to  eat,  I  believe.  ...  At  any  rate,  he  has 
never  figured  on  our  tab!  \  .  .  .  That  means  that  we 
have  a  poor  opinion  of  him.  But  don't  trouble ; 
we  have  much  better  things.  .  .  ."  Tylo,  Sugar, 
and  Bread  give  way  to  the  temptations  of  the 
Luxuries'  table :  one  Luxury  catches  Light  herself 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  271 

round  the  waist.  The  turning  of  the  diamond 
brings  the  tempted  ones  to  their  senses,  and  wipes 
out  the  glories  of  the  Luxuries.  For  them  are 
substituted  the  angelic  beauty  of  the  Happinesses. 
First  the  "  Children's  Happinesses  "  appear  dancing 
and  singing,  but  without  the  Blue  Bird.  Then 
come  the  Happinesses  of  Tyltyl's  own  home, 
though  he  does  not  recognize  them  They  are 
the  Happiness  of  Being  Well,  the  Happiness  of 
Pure  Air,  the  Happiness  of  Loving  one's  Parents, 
the  Happiness  of  Running  Barefoot  in  the  Dew, 
and  many  others.  When  Tyltyl  asks  them  about 
the  Blue  Bird,  they  all  burst  out  laughing  at 
hearing  that  he  does  not  know  where  the  Bird  is. 
The  Happiness  of  Running  Barefoot  in  the  Dew 
has  taken  word  to  the  Great  Joys.  They  appear 
to  the  children — the  Joy  of  Being  Just,  the  Joy  of 
Being  Good,  the  Joy  of  Fame,  the  Joy  of  Under- 
standing, and  such  gentry.  The  Joy  of  Loving 
comes  also,  and  "  the  peerless  joy  of  Maternal 
Love  " — in  her  Tyltyl  sees  the  resemblance  to  his 
mother,  "  but  you  are  much  prettier."  She  wears 
a  ring  like  Mummy  Tyl,  but  with  light  flowing 
through  it.  "  Doesn't  it  do  any  work  like  the  one 
at  home  ?  "  asks  Tyltyl. 

" '  Why,  yes,'  says  Maternal  Love,  '  it  is  the  very 
same :  did  you  never  see  that  it  becomes  quite 
white  and  fills  with  light  the  moment  it  fondles 
you  ? '  " 

She  tells  him  that  "  Heaven  is  wherever  you  and 
I  kiss  each  other."  These  Joys  kneel  at  the  feet 


272  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

of  Light  because  she  is  to  teach  them  to  see 
beyond  themselves  ;  but  not  yet.  They  part  from 
her  with  tears,  but  without  the  Blue  Bird,  and  with 
only  the  slightest  mention  of  it  in  the  whole  act, 
as  is  natural  in  a  scene  designed  to  consummate 
the  daintily,  solemnly,  airy  Christmas  quality  of  the 
whole  play. 

Light  now  has  to  announce  that  a  note  from  the 
Fairy  Be>ylune  tells  her  the  Blue  Bird  is  probably 
in  the  graveyard,  one  of  the  dead  is  hiding  it. 
She  sends  the  children  alone  to  the  graveyard,  and 
there,  in  the  turning  of  the  diamond,  the  gaping 
tombs  give  forth  an  efflorescence  which  makes  a 
fairy-like  garden,  with  dew  on  the  flowers,  mur- 
muring wind,  and  bees  and  birds.  "  There  are  no 
dead,"  is  the  discovery. 

The  children  are  next  taken  by  Light  to  the 
Kingdom  of  the  Future,  where  the  children  are 
waiting  to  be  born — playing,  talking,  dreaming, 
working  at  future  inventions — and  among  them 
a  child  who  is  to  wipe  out  injustice  from  the 
earth,  and  another  who  is  to  be  Tyltyl's  brother. 
The  great  opal  doors  open  and  Time  appears 
calling  those  whose  turn  it  is  to  be  born,  and  of 
two  lovers  one  is  taken  and  another  is  forced  to 
remain  behind.  The  galley  bearing  them  passes 
away ;  the  song  of  the  glad  and  expectant  mothers 
is  heard.  Time  sees  the  children  and  is  furious 
and  threatening,  but  they  slip  away  with  Light, 
who  has  the  Blue  Bird  under  her  cloak. 

At  the  wall  of  their  cottage  the  children  part 
from  Light  and  the  rest.  They  are  still  without 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  273 

the  Blue  Bird,  because  the  one  from  the  Future 
turned  pink :  "  he  changes  colour  when  he  is 
eyed."  The  Dog  and  the  Cat  quarrel  again.  The 
clock  strikes  and  all  flee,  the  Dog  howling  outside. 
The  children  are  awakened  by  Mummy  Tyl,  who 
is  frightened  at  their  strange  talk  and  adventures. 
She  thinks  she  is  to  lose  them,  but  Daddy  Tyl 
thinks  all  is  well.  After  a  knock  their  neighbour 
Berlingot  enters,  and  the  children  think  her  the 
Fairy  Berylune.  Her  little  sick  daughter  wants 
Tyltyl's  bird,  and  behold  it  is  blue.  He  gives  it 
and  she  goes  away.  "How  lovely  it  all  is!"  he 
says,  "  and  how  glad  I  feel !  "  The  neighbour 
returns  presently  with  a  beautiful  little  girl  carrying 
Tyltyl's  dove.  But  as  Tyltyl  is  stroking  the  bird 
it  escapes  and  flies  away.  The  little  girl  sobs,  but 
Tyltyl  comforts  her  and  says  he  will  catch  him 
again  ;  then,  addressing  the  audience,  he  says  :  "  If 
any  of  you  should  find  him,  would  you  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  give  him  back  to  us  ?  ...  We  need 
him  for  our  happiness,  later  on." 

Compare  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu "  simply  as  a  fairy 
play  for  children  with  any  other  books  or  plays 
for  children — with  "  Peter  Pan,"  with  "  Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  with  Mr.  Walter  de  la  Mare's 
"  Three  Mulla  Mulgars " — and  it  will  bear  the 
comparison.  It  innovates  less  than  "  Alice  "  and 
no  more  than  "  Three  Mulla  Mulgars."  The 
animals  and  inanimate  things  are  personified  and 
made  to  talk.  All  takes  place  during  the  sleeping 
hours,  and  it  is  "only  pretending,"  for  the  two 
children  might  have  been  seen  lying  rightly  in 
18 


274  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

their   bed  at  any  hour  of  the  night.     It   is   the 
night  before  Christmas  Day.     The  children  are  the 
masters,  with  the  help  of  a  fairy  of  a  thoroughly 
acceptable  traditional  kind.     All   these    are    con- 
ditions which  cause  less  surprise  fulfilled  than  if 
unfulfilled.     Then  Tyltyl    is   to   be   dressed   like 
Hop-o'-my-Thumb  in  Perrault's  tales,  Mytyl  like 
Grethel   or   Little   Red  Riding   Hood,  the   Fairy 
Be>ylune  and  neighbour  Berlingot  like  "  the  poor 
woman   in    fairy   tales,"   the   Dog    in   a   costume 
suggesting  "John  Bull,"  the  Cat  in  that  of  Puss- 
in-Boots,  though  Maeterlinck  might  easily  defend 
himself  against  any  one  who  attacked  him  with 
his   own  objection  to  the  use  of  ancient  bogeys 
and   fustian   in   modern   plays.     The  reader,  and 
still  less  the  spectator,  if  he  be  acquainted  with 
new  as  well  as  old  fairy  tales,  children's  books, 
pantomimes,  etc.,  has  no  difficulties  at  the  opening 
of  the  play  and  few  at  any  other  point.     It  satisfies 
the  most  rigid  and  the  most  indolent  conventional 
standards  by  its  total  form  and  most  of  its  detail. 
The  Palace  of  Happiness  is  indeed  an  irrelevant 
intrusion,  but  it  can  be  played  so  that  the  "  angel 
forms"  of  the  Joy  of  Doing  Good  and  the  other 
shadows  appear  as  pretty  and  as  little  symbolical 
as  ballet-girls.     Upon  the  stage,  the  brilliant    or 
fantastic  or  amusing  dresses,  and  the  various  sur- 
prising   and    charming   scenes,   add    yet   a   great 
deal  more  to  the  power  of  the  play  to  conquer  the 
eye  and  the  fancy. 

But  Maeterlinck  has  not  merely  done  consum- 
mately what  many  could  have  done  somehow  or 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  275 

very  well.  Here,  for  example,  are  Tyltyl  and 
Mytyl  looking  out  of  their  window  at  the  rich 
children's  party. 

T.  It's  snowing!  .  .  .  There's  two  carriages, 
with  six  horses  each  !  .  .  . 

M.   There  are  twelve  little  boys  getting  out ! .  .  . 

T.  How  silly  you  are !  ...  They're  little 
girls.  .  .  . 

M.   They've  got  knickerbockers.  .  .  . 

T.  What  do  you  know  ?  .  .  .  Don't  push 
so !  ... 

M.    I  never  touched  you. 

T.  (who  is  taking  up  the  whole  stoat).  You're 
taking  up  all  the  room. 

M.   Why,  there's  no  room  at  all !  ... 

T.   Do  be  quiet !     I  see  the  tree !  .  .  . 

M.    What  tree  ?  .  .  . 

T.  Why,  the  Christmas  tree !  .  .  .  You're 
looking  at  the  wall !  .  .  . 

M.  I'm  looking  at  the  wall  because  I've  got 
no  room. 

T.  (giving  her  a  miserly  little  place  on  the  stool}. 
There !  Will  that  do  ?  ...  Now  you're  better  off 
than  I  !  I  say,  what  lots  and  lots  of  lights  ! 

M.  What  are  those  people  doing  who  are 
making  such  a  noise  ?  .  .  . 

T.   They're  the  musicians. 

M.   Are  they  angry  ?  .  /il_ 

T.   No  ;  but  it's  hard  work. 

M.   Another  carriage  with  white  horses !  .  .  . 

T.   Be  quiet !  .  .  .  And  look ! 

M.  What  are  those  gold  things  there,  hanging 
from  the  branches  ? 

T.  Why,  toys,  to  be  sure  !  .  .  .  Swords,  guns, 
soldiers,  cannons.  .  .  . 


276  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

M.   And  dolls  ;  say,  are  there  any  dolls  ?  .  .  . 
T.   Dolls  ?     That's  too  silly ;   there's  no  fun  in 
dolls. 

But  these  things,  perfect  as  they  are  in  their 
way,  might  have  been  by  other  clever  writers. 
The  humour  can  be  quietly  playful  enough,  as 
when  the  Fairy  says  she  thinks  it  wrong  of  the  rich 
children  not  to  give  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  some,  and 
Tyltyl  replies  :  "  Not  at  all,  they're  rich  " — or  when 
the  Cat  tells  the  Oak  that  it  does  not  throw  off  its 
rheumatism  "  because  of  the  moss  ;  you  put  too 
much  of  it  on  your  feet " — or  in  the  assumed 
superiority  of  the  little  boy  to  the  little  girl  all 
through,  or  of  the  similar  superiority  of  Gaffer  Tyl 
to  Granny  Tyl,  or  in  the  quarrels  of  Cat  and  Dog 
down  to  the  time  when  the  Dog  asks  the  children  : 
"  Shall  I  do  a  wonderful  trick  for  you  ?  Would 
you  like  me  to  kiss  the  Cat  ?  "  Or  when  Mytyl 
asks  Tyltyl  what  the  dead  eat  and  he  says  "  Roots," 
she  asks,  "  Shall  we  see  them  ? "  Yet  if  this 
humour,  taken  altogether,  can  be  called  individual, 
it  is  not  distinctive ;  nor  perhaps  is  the  mere  in- 
vention of  the  Land  of  Memory,  the  Kingdom  of  the 
Future,  the  Forest  where  the  Animals  strive  against 
Man  ;  it  is  certainly  far  less  so  than  the  invention 
of  several  of  the  early  plays.  One  reminder  of  the 
early  plays  there  is  in  the  third  scene  of  the  fifth 
act  when  the  two  unborn  lovers  are  begging  to  be 
allowed  to  go  together  to  earth,  and  one  says,  "  I 
shall  never  see  him  again,"  and  the  other,  "  We 
shall  be  alone  in  the  world."  This  echoed  ex- 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  277 

pression  of  the  feeling  of  separation  has  been  seen 
to  survive  and  to  reappear  again  and  again.  No  ; 
as  in  "  Monna  Vanna,"  Maeterlinck  has  taken  an 
outline  which  might  have  been  any  one's,  but  this 
outline  he  has  filled  with  delicate  and  significant 
fancy  that  is  purely  his  own,  and  with  thoughts 
which  are  not  only  his  own  but  are  for  the  most 
part  to  be  found  in  his  essays.  If  any  one  is  inclined 
to  lay  too  much  stress  upon  this  serious  side  of  the 
book  he  should  turn  to  the  first  act,  where  the 
power  of  the  diamond  is  explained.  It  will,  says 
the  Fairy,  open  the  children's  eyes  so  that  they  can 
see  at  once  "  the  inside  of  things."  The  boy  turns 
the  diamond,  and  among  other  souls  appear  those 
of  the  loaves  : 

"  The  souls  of  the  Quartern  Loaves,  in  the  form 
of  little  men  in  crust-coloured  tights,  flurried  and 
all  powdered  with  flour,  scramble  out  of  the  bread- 
pan  and  frisk  round  the  table,  where  they  are 
caught  up  by  Fire,  who,  springing  from  the  hearth 
in  yellow  and  vermilion  tights,  writhes  with  laughter 
as  he  chases  the  loaves." 

And  the  Fairy  tells  the  boy  that  they  are  "  taking 
advantage  of  the  reign  of  truth  to  leave  the  pan  in 
which  they  were  too  tightly  packed."  This  is 
Maeterlinck's  playful  warning  to  those  who  are  not 
content  that  a  Christmas  fairy  play  should  be  that 
above  all  things.  It  is  as  if,  in  an  hour  of  un- 
controllable and  pyrotechnic  high  spirits,  he  had 
taken  his  essays  and  vowed  to  turn  them  into  some- 
thing amusing.  For  the  most  part  he  has  done 


278  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

this  with  a  zest  and  lightness  which  are  as  re- 
markable as  the  qualities  of  the  essays  themselves, 
but,  instead  of  writing  of  the  wisdom  of  silent 
children,  he  compares  seven  brothers  and  sisters  to 
a  set  of  Pan's-pipes.  He  has  once  or  twice  relented, 
and  even  so  far  forgotten  his  vow  that  he  writes 
as  would  better  become  the  essayist.  The  in- 
truded "  Palace  of  Happiness  "  is  a  case  in  point. 
It  can  only  be  effective  on  the  stage  by  obliterating 
whatever  meaning  it  has  and  making  it  simply  an 
excuse  for  scenery  and  dress. 

It  is  yet  worth  while  to  see  how  much  of  the 
essays  has  not  been  completely  transformed.  Tylo, 
the  dog,  for  example,  who,  dressed  as  John  Bull  or 
not,  is  probably  the  favourite  character  with  English 
audiences.  Tylo  does  nothing  which  might  not 
have  been  foreseen  by  readers  of  Maeterlinck's 
essays  on  the  death  of  a  little  dog  and  on  chrys- 
anthemums. When  his  soul  is  free  and  can 
speak,  he  at  once  jumps  about  with  joy  and 
addresses  the  boy  as  "  My  little  god  "  and  cries, 
"  At  last,  at  last  we  can  talk  !  .  .  .  I  had  so  much 
to  tell  you  !  Bark  and  wag  my  tail  as  I  might, 
you  never  understood.  But  now  !  .  .  .  Good 
morning,  good  morning !  .  .  .  I  love  you  ! "  The 
Fairy  was  to  tell  the  souls  that  all  who  ac- 
company the  children  will  die  at  the  end  of  the 
journey,  and  the  Cat  cries  out  at  once  that  they 
should  return  to  the  "  trap  "  ;  but  Tylo  accepts  the 
condition.  "  I  want  to  go  with  the  little  god  !  I 
want  to  talk  to  him  all  the  time."  When  the 
animals  are  left  alone  together,  the  Cat  tells  them 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  279 

that  their  future  is  at  stake,  and  that  they  must 
prolong  the  journey  as  much  as  possible.  Tylo 
simply  explains  : 

"  'This  is  ridiculous  !  .  .  .  There  is  Man,  and  that's 
all !  ...  We  have  to  obey  him  and  do  as  he  tells 
us  !  ...  That  is  the  one  and  only  fact !  .  .  .  I 
recognize  no  one  but  him  !  .  .  .  Hurrah  for  Man  ! 
.  .  .  Man  for  ever  !  ...  In  life  and  death,  all  for 
Man  !  .  .  .  Man  is  God  ! ' " 

In  the  forest  scene  Tylo's  acts  are  as  heroic  as 
these  speeches.  Much  of  this  scene  is  unmitigated 
philosophy  from  the  essays.  The  Oak,  for  example, 
speaks  for  inhuman  Nature  to  the  assembled 
animals  : 

"The  child  you  see  before  you,  thanks  to  a 
talisman  stolen  from  the  powers  of  Earth,  is  able 
to  take  possession  of  the  Blue  Bird  and  thus  to 
snatch  from  us  the  secret  which  we  have  kept 
since  the  origin  of  life.  .  .  .  Now  we  know  enough 
of  Man  to  entertain  no  doubt  as  to  the  fate  which 
he  reserves  for  us  once  he  is  in  possession  of  this 
secret.  That  is  why  it  seems  to  me  that  any 
hesitation  would  be  both  foolish  and  criminal  .  .  . 
It  is  a  serious  moment.  The  child  must  be  done 
away  with  before  it  is  too  late." 

Tylo  breaks  in  upon  this  anarchism  with  gruff, 
abusive  humour,  calling  the  trees  "  Timbertoes " 
and  the  Ivy  "  You  old  ball  of  twine."  But  he  is 
tied  up,  and  the  Oak  continues  : 

" '  This  is  the  first  time  that  it  is  given  to  us  to 
judge  Man  and  make  him  feel  our  power.  ...  I 


28o  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

do  not  think  that,  after  the  harm  which  he  has 
done  us,  after  the  monstrous  injustice  which  we 
have  suffered,  there  can  remain  the  least  doubt  as 
to  the  sentence  that  awaits  him.' " 


And  all  of  them  are,  in  fact,  for  death,  and 
immediate  death.  The  Beech  offers  its  highest 
branch  to  hang  the  children  on,  and  the  Fir-tree 
four  planks  for  a  coffin,  and  so  on,  the  Lime 
interrupting  to  oppose  "  such  extremities."  They 
are  alarmed  at  the  knife,  and  make  a  very  poor 
fight  against  two  small  children  and  afterwards  the 
dog.  When  the  Wolf  tries  to  corrupt  Tylo  by 
reminding  him  that  Tyltyl's  father  drowned  his 
seven  puppies,  he  retorts  :  "  Quite  right !  And 
a  good  thing  too  !  ...  It  was  because  they  looked 
like  you  !  "  When  Light  has  saved  the  children 
she  tells  them  that  the  animals  and  trees  are 
"  always  like  that  ;  but  we  do  not  know  it  because 
we  do  not  see  it.  ...  Man  is  all  alone  against  all 
in  this  world."  Not  a  word  about  vegetarianism, 
though  the  sheep  gives,  as  the  reason  of  its  hostility, 
the  fact  that  Tyltyl  has  eaten  her  brother,  two 
sisters,  three  uncles,  an  aunt,  and  a  grandfather 
and  grandmother.  Maeterlinck's  cheerful  con- 
fidence in  the  romance  of  Man  is  not  prominent 
in  this  scene  alone.  In  the  Palace  of  Night,  Night 
admits  that  Man  has  "  captured  a  third  of  her 
mysteries,  that  all  her  terrors  are  afraid,  her 
ghosts  fled,  and  most  of  her  sicknesses  ill — 
"  almost  all  poorly  and  very  much  discouraged  .  .  . 
the  doctors  are  so  unkind  to  them."  She  asks : 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  281 

"Must  he  absolutely  know  everything?"  In  the 
Kingdom  of  the  Future  the  same  is  expressed  with 
greater  extravagance  and  not  always  so  much 
humour.  Maeterlinck's  interest  in  machinery  and 
invention  leads  to  a  whirl  of  "  wheels,  disks,  fly- 
wheels, driving-wheels,  pulleys,  straps,  and  strange 
and  as  yet  unnamed  objects,"  where  experimenters 
are  at  work,  and  Time,  choosing  those  who  are  to 
be  born,  comments,  "  More  doctors  ?  .  .  .  Where 
are  the  engineers  ? "  The  unborn  children  boast 
to  Tyltyl  of  their  inventions  ;  and  one  shows  a 
scented  daisy  as  big  as  a  table — "  They  will  grow 
like  that  when  I  am  on  the  earth  " — and  another 
a  bunch  of  grapes  as  big  as  pears  ;  one  is  to  bring 
pure  joy  to  the  earth  "  by  means  of  ideas  which 
people  have  not  yet  had,"  and  another  is  "  to 
conquer  death."  There  is  a  curious  piece  of  cruelty 
also  in  this  scene.  A  brother  of  Tyltyl's,  who  is  to 
be  born  on  next  Palm  Sunday,  comes  running  up 
to  the  children  with  a  bag.  Tyltyl  asks  what  is  in 
it,  and  he  tells  them,  "  Three  illnesses  :  scarlatina, 
whooping-cough,  and  measles."  Tyltyl's  comment 
might  have  been  invented  by  Mr.  Kenneth  Grahame 
or  any  child  :  "  Oh,  that's  all,  is  it  ? "  But  he 
continues  :  "  And,  after  that,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 
"  I  shall  have  you,"  says  the  unborn.  "  It  will 
hardly  be  worth  while  coming,"  is  Tyltyl's  last 
word.  It  is  cruel,  to  any  one  but  a  child,  and  it  is 
admirable.  The  child  is  perhaps  to  be  one  of  the 
doomed  children  of  "  Le  Tresor  des  Humbles,"  but 
it  has  a  reality  which  is  lacking  there.  This  is  one 
of  the  passages  where  philosophy  fails  Maeterlinck 


a82  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

and  reality  breaks  in.  It  is  not  the  only  un- 
expected thing  in  the  scene.  Among  the  children 
who  are  to  go  off  on  Time's  galley  to  the  earth  are 
several  who  have  forgotten  the  things  they  had 
to  bring — for  each  must  bring  something — and  one 
of  them  has  forgotten  "  the  box  containing  the  two 
crimes  which  I  shall  have  to  commit."  This  need 
not  be  taken  as  doctrine,  unless  the  whole  scene 
is,  but  it  is  so  consistent  that  I  think  it  must. 
"  Life  is  right " — at  least  to  the  extent  of  being 
unalterable,  and  Merlin  was  wrong  when  he 
told  Lanceor  that  Joyzelle  could  change  the 
future. 

If  Maeterlinck  gives  up,  for  the  purposes  of  the 
play,  his  suggestion  that  man  may  learn  to  change 
the  future,  he  returns  to  the  belief  that  he  makes 
his  own  past.  In  "  Le  Temple  Enseveli "  he  ex- 
pressed this  belief  very  cunningly.  The  most 
dangerous  past,  he  said,  is  one  inhabited  by  "  too 
dearly  cherished  phantoms,"  and  against  such 
cherishing  he  urges  that,  if  the  dead  were  to  return, 
they  would  bid  us  dry  our  eyes  and  say  that  they 
live  only  in  our  memories,  but  that  we  falsely 
believe  our  regrets  alone  can  touch  them  ;  in  truth 
they  are  robbed  yet  again  of  life  when  we  return 
too  often  to  their  graves  and  allow  them  to  "  sadden 
our  ardour."  This  is  the  language  of  old  Gaffer 
Tyl,  whom  the  children  meet  in  the  Land  of 
Memory : 

" '  Why  don't  you  come  to  see  us  oftener  ?  ...  It 
makes  us  so  happy !  ...  It  is  months  and  months 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  283 

now  that  you've  forgotten  us,  and  that  we  have 
seen  nobody.  .  .  . 

" '  We  are  always  here,  waiting  for  a  visit  from 
those  who  are  alive.  .  .  .  They  come  so  seldom  !  .  .  . 
Well,  every  time  you  think  of  us,  we  wake  up  and 
see  you  again.' " 


The  scene  in  the  graveyard,  ending  in  Tyltyl's 
"  There  are  no  dead  "  is  a  continuation  of  the  same 
thought,  and  the  child  has  evidently  read  the 
essay  on  immortality,  as  Tylo  has  read  that  on 
the  death  of  a  little  dog.  If  the  Kingdom  of 
the  Future  is  not  quite  in  keeping  with  holly  and 
mistletoe,  there  can  be  no  objection  of  the  kind 
against  the  Land  of  Memory.  In  the  book,  and 
still  more  on  the  stage,  it  is  full  of  concessions  to 
amiability,  and  this  scene  at  the  supper-table  is 
a  charming  example : 


Tyltyl  (half  raising  himself  on  his  stool).  I  want 
more,  more !  .  .  .  (He  seizes  the  tureen,  drags  it 
towards  him,  and  upsets  it  and  the  soup,  which 
trickles  over  tJie  table  and  down  over  their  knees, 
and  scalds  them.  Yells  and  screams  of  pain  ^) 

Granny    Tyl.   There !  .  .  .  I  told  you  so !  ... 

Gaffer  Tyl  (giving  Tyltyl  a  loud  box  on  the  ear). 
That's  one  for  you  !  .  .  . 

Tyltyl  (staggered  for  a  moment,  next  puts  his 
hand  to  his  cheek  with  an  expression  of  rapture}. 
Oh,  that's  just  like  the  slaps  you  used  to  give  me 
when  you  were  alive !  .  .  .  Grandad,  how  nice 
it  was,  and  how  good  it  makes  one  feel !  .  .  .  I 
must  give  you  a  kiss  !  .  .  . 


284  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Gaffer  Tyl.  Very  well ;  there's  more  where  that 
came  from,  if  you  like  them. 

In  this  Land  of  Memory  Gaffer  Tyl  wants  to 
smoke,  but  has  broken  his  pipe.  Another  piece 
of  geniality  is  the  pipe  which  is  given  to  the  soul 
of  the  Lime-tree  to  smoke  in  the  Forest  scene  : 
he  comes  forward  quietly  smoking  his  pipe.  These 
personifications  of  the  trees  may  serve  as  examples 
of  Maeterlinck's  pretty  anthropomorphic  fancy. 
Tyltyl  turns  the  diamond  and — 

"  A  long-drawn-out  rustling  shakes  the  leaves 
and  branches,  The  oldest  and  most  stately  trunks 
open  to  make  way  for  the  soul  which  each  of  them 
contains.  The  appearance  of  these  souls  differs 
according  to  the  appearance  and  the  character  of 
the  trees  which  they  represent.  The  soul  of  the 
Elm,  for  instance,  is  a  sort  of  pursy,  pot-bellied, 
crabbed  gnome  ;  the  Lime-tree  is  placid,  familiar, 
and  jovial ;  the  Beech,  elegant  and  agile  ;  the 
Birch,  white,  reserved,  and  restless  ;  the  Willow, 
stunted,  dishevelled,  and  talkative  ;  the  Fir-tree, 
tall,  lean,  and  taciturn  ;  the  Cypress,  tragic  ;  the 
Chestnut-tree,  pretentious,  and  rather  dandified  ; 
the  Poplar,  sprightly,  cumbersome,  and  talkative." 

The  early  plays  of  Maeterlinck  are  irregularly 
and  incompletely  symbolic,  as  life,  nature,  and 
biography  are.  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu"  is  more  allegorical 
than  symbolic  ;  in  fact,  few  books  are  less  symbolic, 
for  the  writer  has  been  too  self-conscious  to  allow 
his  imagination  to  work  in  the  manner  which 
produces  symbols.  It  is  also  far  too  lively  a  play 


"L'OISEAU   BLEU"  285 

to  be  systematically  allegorical,  and  to  call  the 
Blue  Bird  happiness,  and  to  claim  the  play  as 
a  picture  of  the  quest  for  happiness,  is  to  blind 
ourselves  to  many  of  the  merits  of  a  theatrical 
fairy  story,  and  to  substantiate  the  claim  is  to 
attempt  an  impossible  and  ungrateful  task.  By 
writing  the  new  fourth  act  for  Mr.  Herbert  Trench 
Maeterlinck  shows  his  robust  indifference  to  every- 
thing but  the  entertainment.  He  very  nearly 
left  the  Blue  Bird  altogether  out  of  this  act.  The 
Blue  Bird,  says  the  Oak,  in  one  of  the  dangerously 
abstract  speeches  of  the  play,  is  "  the  great  secret 
of  things,  and  of  happiness  " ;  and  again,  to  win 
the  Blue  Bird  is  "  to  snatch  from  us  the  secret 
which  we  have  kept  since  the  origin  of  life."  Fairy 
BeYylune,  says  Light,  has  said  that  the  Blue  Bird 
is  in  the  graveyard — "  One  of  the  dead  is  hiding 
it  in  his  tomb  "  ;  but  "  there  are  no  dead."  Light 
again  claims  to  have  the  Blue  Bird  when  they 
leave  the  Kingdom  of  the  Future,  and  when  they 
are  back  again  at  the  cottage  she  tells  them  that 
the  Fairy  is  coming  to  ask  for  it.  "  But,"  says 
Tyltyl,  "  I  haven't  got  the  Blue  Bird ! "  Where- 
upon Light  seems  to  prevaricate,  saying  :  "  It  seems 
likely  that  the  Blue  Bird  does  not  exist  or  that 
he  changes  colour  when  he  is  caged."  Neverthe- 
less, in  the  cage  is  a  blue  bird  found,  instead  of 
a  common  turtle-dove,  and,  by  giving  it  to  Madame 
Berlingot,  Tyltyl  cures  her  sick  daughter :  which 
causes  no  surprise  in  a  fairy  play,  and  more  cannot 
be  said.  The  Blue  Bird  has  given  an  excuse  for 
the  play  and  continuity  to  the  adventures,  and 


286  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

that  it  should  seem  to  mean  something  important 
is  no  more  than  was  to  be  expected  in  a  work  by 
Maeterlinck.  He  has  probably  tricked  us  good- 
naturedly  by  playing  with  his  liking  for  symbols. 
The  Blue  Bird  means  happiness,  as  the  White 
Peacocks  of  "  Serres  Chaudes "  meant  ennui,  and 
no  more. 


XVIII 

"MARY  MAGDALENE" 

A  TRANSLATION  of  Maeterlinck's  latest  play, 
"  Mary  Magdalene,"  was  published  in  1910. 
The  original  hasnot  yetappeared.  Its  chief  characters 
are  Mary  Magdalene  and  her  lover,  Lucius  Verus, 
a  Roman  military  tribune.  At  the  beginning  of 
the  play  he  is  telling  his  friend,  a  master  in  philo- 
sophy, Annaeus  Silanus,  that  he  has  lost  trace  of 
her.  She  had  not  appeared  to  accept  his  love, 
though  she  was,  as  a  courtesan,  "  not  at  all  inexor- 
able to  the  Roman  knights."  He  still  desires  her, 
as  he  had  never  desired  any  other  woman.  Silanus 
tells  him  that  she  is  now  living  not  far  away,  in 
the  retirement  of  a  marble  villa.  She  is  to  be  his 
guest  this  day,  and,  as  they  are  speaking,  the  sound 
of  a  double  flute  betokens  her  arrival.  She  has 
just  lost  some  rubies  and  pearls,  a  Babylonian 
peacock  and  her  murcena,  and  she  puts  down  the 
robbery  to  the  wandering  band  of  the  Nazarene, 
whom  she  calls  "  a  sort  of  unwashed  brigand,  who 
entices  the  crowds  with  a  rude  kind  of  sorcery,  and, 
on  the  pretence  of  preaching  some  new  law  or 
doctrine,  lives  by  plunder  and  surrounds  himself 

287 


288  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

with  fellows  capable  of  everything."  But  Silanus 
argues  against  this  opinion,  for  the  band  has  been 
gathered  for  some  time  near  his  house  and  seems 
"  incapable  of  stealing  more  than  a  cup  of  water 
or  an  ear  of  wheat."  Their  leader  has  a  voice  "  of 
a  penetrating  and  peculiar  sweetness."  When 
Silanus  leaves  Verus  and  Mary  for  a  moment  alone 
together,  she  will  only  say  that  now  she  sells 
herself  "  more  skilfully,  and  dearer  than  before  " ; 
which  Verus  at  first  chivalrously  disbelieves  and 
then  accepts  by  saying,  "  If  it  is  a  question  only 
of  rating  you  more  highly,  know,  Magdalene,  that 
from  this  moment  you  are  mine."  Now  other 
Romans,  Appius  and  Caelius,  enter  and  relate  how 
they  have  been  delayed  by  a  multitude  gathered 
about  a  blind  man  newly  healed  by  the  Nazarene. 
He  is  now  staying  with  Silanus's  neighbour,  Simon, 
lately  cured  by  him  of  leprosy,  and  while  they  are 
speaking  together  they  hear  the  sound  of  a  crowd 
gathering.  A  silence  follows  and  a  voice  saying, 
"  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  !  .  .  ."  Mary,  as  if  drawn  by 
the  voice,  goes  down  towards  the  speaker  and  will 
not  be  stopped.  But  the  crowd  presently  discovers 
her  and  chases  her  back  with  cries  of  "The  adulteress! 
.  .  .  stone  her ! "  until  the  voice  is  heard  saying, 
"  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast 
a  stone  at  her."  The  crowd  retreats.  Mary  rejects 
the  support  of  Verus  "  with  a  harsh  and  fierce 
gesture,  and,  staring  in  front  of  her,  alone  among 
the  others,  who  look  at  her  without  understanding, 
slowly  she  climbs  the  steps  of  the  terrace." 


'MARY   MAGDALENE"  289 

In  the  second  act  Verus  visits  her  in  her  own 
villa.  She  seems  to  accept  him,  reminding  him  how 
she  received  many  others  in  the  old  days,  but  him, 
"  the  comeliest,  the  purest,"  she  tried  to  forget,  and 
was  shy  with  him.  Verus  is  a  little  incredulous 
of  his  happiness,  especially  as  he  had  lately  been 
refused  the  house  by  her  slaves.  That  was  because 
she  was  still  "  tired  and  worn  out "  since  the  struggle 
with  the  crowd  in  Simon's  garden.  She  asks  if 
Verus  knows  where  the  Nazarene  is.  "  His  hours 
are  numbered,"  says  Verus.  But  Mary  asks,  "  What 
has  he  done  ?  .  .  .  He  brings  a  happiness  that  was 
not  known  before  ;  and  all  those  who  come  next 
to  him  are  happy,  it  seems,  like  children  at  their 
awaking.  .  .  .  He  fixed  his  eyes  for  but  a  moment 
on  mine.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  choose  me  gravely, 
absolutely,  for  ever."  Verus  does  not  understand 
this,  but  is  reassured  by  her  sobs  upon  his  breast 
and  her  saying  that  she  will  never  see  the  Nazarene 
again.  Nevertheless,  she  asks  after  him  from 
Appius  and  Silanus,who  between  them  tell  the  story 
of  the  raising  of  Lazarus  from  the  dead.  Appius 
is  convinced  that  "this  man,  who  has  conquered 
death,  which  hitherto  had  conquered  the  world,  is 
greater  than  we  and  our  gods."  While  Silanus 
is  questioning  Appius's  opinion  that  they  ought  to 
conform  their  lives  to  the  teaching  of  the  Nazarene, 
Mary  hears  a  sound  which  she  interprets :  "  He  is 
coming."  But  it  is  Lazarus,  not  Jesus,  who  comes 
unopposed  into  their  presence.  Then  Verus  bidshim 
.go,  but  he  says  only :  "  Come.  The  Master  calls 
you,"  to  Mary.  She  at  once  steps  towards  him, 
19 


290  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

willing  to  go  "  wherever  he  wishes."  But  Verus 
holds  her  back  by  force  until  he  believes  that  she 
loves  the  Nazarene.  She  protests  that  she  loves 
Verus,  who  bids  her  go  with  her  "  guide  from  the 
tombs."  She  goes  out  after  Lazarus  in  silence. 

In  the  third  act  Jesus  has  been  arrested.     The 

scene  is  the  room  in  Joseph  of  Arimathaea's  house, 

where  the  Last  Supper  took  place.     It  is  crowded 

with  men  and  women  miraculously  healed  by  Jesus 

and  others  waiting  to  be  healed,  and  Nicodemus, 

Cleophas,    Levi    the    publican,     Mary    Cleophas, 

Martha  the  sister  of  Lazarus,  and  others.     Martha 

has  seen  Jesus  going  into  Caiaphas's  palace,  and 

she   tells   them    they  are   going   to   persecute    all 

Galileans ;    at  which  Cleophas  says,  "  We  are  all 

Galileans  " ;  but  many  deny  it,  and  one  says,  "  It  is 

not  well  that  we  should  be  found  together."     They 

gossip   miserably  of  what  has  happened  to  them, 

asking  "  Why  does  he  not  protect  us  ? "   and  the 

like.     Martha  tells  what  she  saw  :  how  the  Roman 

soldiers   struck   Jesus   to   make   him   walk  faster. 

Mary  Magdalene,  she  has  heard,  is  mad  with  grief, 

and  was  "  dashing  her  head  against  the  walls  in 

Annas'  palace."     Presently  she  enters  with  Joseph 

of  Arimathaea,  James,  Andrew,  and  Simon  Zelotes. 

Mary   has   to  say  that   she  has  seen  Verus  and 

that  he   thought    it    possible    to    save    him — "  I 

do  not  know  how.  .  .  .  He  will  explain  to  us.  .  . 

But,  if  he  does  not  save  him,  we  must."     She  is 

thinking    of  armed    deliverance,  and   asks    which 

of  the  men   in  the  town   have  arms.     Joseph   of 

Arimathaea  thinks  Jesus  "determined   to   be  de- 


"MARY   MAGDALENE"  291 

stroyed"  because  he  has  confessed  to  being  Son 
of  God  and  King  of  the  Jews.  Mary  replies  that 
he  has  renounced  his  defence  "  to  try  your  faith, 
your  strength,  your  love."  She  addresses  the  men 
about  her,  telling  them  "even  those  whom  he 
raised  from  the  dead  are  afraid."  Nicodemus 
and  Joseph  counsel  moderation.  And  now  Verus 
arrives.  She  runs  to  him  with  outstretched  arms 
for  help ;  he  ironically  says  :  "  I  have  not  come 
to  command  this  .  .  .  foreign  .  .  .  troop."  The 
two  are  left  alone.  His  attitude  escapes  Mary  ; 
she  thinks  him  willing  to  help  Jesus.  Verus  has 
the  fate  of  the  Nazarene  in  his  hands,  as  the 
guardian  responsible  for  the  Roman  peace  ;  but 
he  is  not  willing  to  save  one  whom  he  thinks  a 
rival  except  for  a  price,  and  it  will  mean  exile, 
if  not  death.  The  price  is  her  body.  Perplexed 
and  speaking  what  her  lover  does  not  merely  fail 
to  understand  but  misunderstands,  she  refuses, 
until  at  length  he  calls  in  the  people  and  tells 
them  that  she  has  refused  to  save  Jesus.  Joseph 
cannot  believe  it,  nor  Mary,  nor  Martha,  but  the 
rest  cry  out :  "  She  has  sold  him.  .  .  .  Where  is 
the  money  ?  .  .  .  Strumpet !  "  Joseph  tries  to  get 
her  to  speak,  to  consent  to  save  Jesus.  She  remains 
silent.  Then  a  sound  of  tumult  is  heard  and  all 
go  to  the  windows,  putting  out  the  lamps  to 
avoid  being  seen.  Outside  are  heard  the  cries : 
"  Crucify  him  !  .  .  .  Crucify  him  !  "  The  onlookers 
comment.  The  blind  man  of  Jericho  says,  "  It  is 
he ! "  ;  another,  "He  cannot  walk  any  farther !  .  .  . 
He  staggers! "  ;  and  the  blind  man  again,  "  He  has 


29*  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

fallen!  .  .  .  He  is  looking  at  the  house."  Once 
more  Verus  says,  "  I  still  promise  you,"  and  Mary, 
without  looking  at  him,  "without  anger,  simply 
in  a  voice  from  another  life,  full  of  peace,  full  of 
divine  clarity  and  certainty,  says,  "  Go ! " 

The  whole  play  must  have  been  written  for  the 
sake  of  this  last  act.  The  rest  is  either  spectacles 
or  eloquent  speeches.  Annaeus  Silanus  has  been 
a  teacher  of  philosophy,  and  it  is  natural  that  he 
should  speak  like  one.  It  is  less  natural  that  he 
should  actually  teach  philosophy  and  occupy  our 
ears  with  fair  copies,  presumably,  of  wise  and  elegant 
letters  to  be  sent  to  his  friends  in  Rome,  As  such 
a  letter  his  opening  speech  would  be  charming,  and 
Cicero  would  certainly  have  admired  it  had  it  been 
in  Latin  equal  to  Maeterlinck's  French : 

"'Here  is  the  terrace,  the  glory  of  my  little 
domain :  it  reminds  me  of  my  terrace  at  Praeneste, 
which  was  the  crown  of  my  desires.  Here  are  my 
orange-trees,  my  cypresses,  my  oleanders.  Here  is 
the  fish-pond,  the  portico  with  the  images  of  the 
gods:  one  of  them  is  a  statue  of  Minerva,  dis- 
covered at  Antioch.  (Pointing  to  the  landscape  on 
the  left.)  And  here  you  have  the  incomparable 
view  over  the  valley,  where  spring  already  reigns. 
We  hang  midway  in  space.  Admire  the  anemones 
streaming  down  the  slopes  of  Bethany.  It  is  as 
though  the  earth  were  ablaze  beneath  the  olive- 
trees.  Here  I  relish  in  peace  the  advantages  of 
old  age,  which  know*  how  to  take  pleasure  in  the 
past  ;f for  youth  narrows  the  enjoyment  of  good 
things,  by  considering  only  those  which  are 
present.'" 


"MARY  MAGDALENE"  293 

Once,  in  fact,  and  speaking  to  Mary,  he  quotes 
the  letter  which  Longinus  sent  him  to  console  him 
for  the  death  of  his  little  child.  The  letter  is  given 
at  length,  with  one  brief  interruption  by  Appius, 
and  Mary's  comment :  "  That  would  not  have  con- 
soled me."  This  man  begins  a  conversation  in  a 
manner  which  should  have  ended  it : 

" '  It  was  said  and  it  was  written  that,  on  this 
most  propitious  day,  I  should  behold  two  marvels, 
not  the  lesser  of  which  is  to  see  thus  promptly 
reunited  two  lovers  who,  according  to  love's  ancient 
custom,  should  have  fled  from  each  other  the  more 
obstinately  the  more  they  yearned  to  meet* " 

• 

Only  too  well  had  his  pupil,  Verus,  learnt  his 
lessons,  and,  when  Mary  is  sobbing  on  his  breast, 
telling  him  she  still  loves  him  in  spite  of  the  Naza- 
rene,  he  says  to  her : 

M '  Come,  I  know  these  tears  that  well  at  the  same 
moment  from  our  two  hearts  in  our  one  joy.  .  .  . 
But  here,  between  the  columns  of  the  vestibule, 
come  the  greatest  ornaments  of  that  beautiful 
Rome  which  we  shall  soon  astonish  with  our  love. 
.  .  .  I  am  right:  it  is  our  good  Silanus,  accom- 
panied by  the  faithful  Appius  ;  led  by  the  immortal 
gods,  they  descend  the  marble  steps  to  hallow  with 
their  fraternal  presence  the  first  smiles  of  a  happi- 
ness born  under  their  eyes.' " 

Whenever  Mary  appears  these  Romans  at  once 
begin  to  compose  elegant  orations,  beginning: 
"Venus  has  left  Cyprus  and  soars  above  Jeru- 


294  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

salem,"  and  so  on  ;  and,  in  one  place,  three  of  them 
vie  in  phrases.  This  may  be  archaeologically  cor- 
rect, and,  if  the  aim  of  these  two  acts  be  to  depict 
the  ceremonious  side  of  Roman  life,  they  do  so 
very  effectively,  though  narrative  and  description, 
without  pretension  of  drama,  would  have  done  it 
still  more  effectively.  Some  of  the  stage  directions 
combine  with  these  statuesque  speeches  to  give,  in 
reading  the  play,  the  effect  of  narrative.  For 
example : 

"  An  incomparable  silence,  in  which  it  seems  as 
though  the  birds  and  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and 
the  very  air  that  is  breathed  take  part,  falls  with 
all  its  supernatural  weight  upon  the  country-side  ; 
and  in  this  silence,  which  weighs  upon  the  people 
on  the  terrace  above,  there  rises,  absolute  sovereign 
of  space  and  the  hour,  a  wonderful  voice,  soft 
and  all-powerful,  intoxicated  with  ardour,  light, 
and  love — distant  and  yet  near  to  every  heart  and 
present  in  every  soul." 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  second  act  the  story 
of  the  raising  of  Lazarus  is  told  in  a  manner  which 
would  be  even  more  admirable  if  it  were  frankly 
Maeterlinck's  and  not  put  into  the  mouths  of 
Appius  and  Silanus  alternately — a  method  ex- 
plained but  hardly  justified  by  the  different  effects 
of  the  miracle  on  the  two  different  temperaments. 
Appius  begins  to  speak  ;  Mary  asks  a  question ; 
Silanus  answers  it,  and  continues  the  narrative. 
Mary  again  interrupts,  and  now  Appius  takes  up 
the  story,  only  to  surrender  it  to  Silanus  after  the 


"MARY   MAGDALENE"  295 

next  interruption.  Sometimes  not  even  this  device 
is  used,  and  Silanus  says : 

"'He  has  not  left  Simon's  house.  The  swaying 
multitude  is  waiting  for  him  in  the  orchard  and 
along  the  roads ;  for,  after  the  first  long  minutes 
of  stupor,  reaction  set  in  and  a  general  alacrity 
followed.' " 

And  Appius  continues  the  sentence : 

" '  Which  was  as  extraordinary  as  the  miracle 
itself!" 

Nor  is  this  more  transparent  than  the  fact  that 
Silanus,  as  Marco  does  in  "  Monna  Vanna"  and 
Merlin  in  "  Joyzelle,"  talks  like  Maeterlinck,  or,  in 
one  place,  makes  Longinus  talk  like  him,  in  the 
words : 

" '  I  assure  you  that,  of  those  whom  we  have  loved, 
much  remains  to  us  after  death  has  removed  them. 
The  time  that  is  past  is  ours  ;  and  I  see  nothing 
of  which  we  are  more  certain  than  of  that  which 
has  been.' " 

The  resemblance  is  closer  and  unquestionable 
when  Silanus  says,  while  Mary  is  going  into  the 
orchard  to  hear  Jesus  :  "  Women  sometimes  have 
thoughts  which  wise  men  do  not  understand "  ; 
and  when  Verus  tells  Mary  that  in  their  separa- 
tion :  "  While  you  were  calling  me,  I  called  you 
also  with  all  the  deep  and  wonderful  voices  of  my 
heart." 


296  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

If  in  the  first  two  acts  these  Romans  explain 
themselves  too  much  and  too  professionally,  Mary 
Magdalene  explains  herself  too  little.  At  first  she 
talks  much  like  the  Romans,  thus  : 

"'I  at  first  suspected  some  Tyrian  workmen 
who  are  fitting  up  one  of  the  rooms  in  my  villa 
with  those  movable  panels  which  are  changed  at 
every  course,  so  that  the  walls  may  harmonize  with 
the  dishes  covering  the  table.' " 

But  when  she  is  first  "  irresistibly  drawn  "  by  the 
voice  of  Jesus,  Maeterlinck  leaves  everything  to 
the  actress  who  plays  the  part.  Silence  is  a  more 
profound  form  of  speech  than  words,  but  it  must 
use  words  to  express  itself  upon  the  stage,  or  at 
least  in  the  printed  book.  Between  the  moment 
when  she  goes  down  towards  the  voice  and  the 
sound  of  the  voice  that  saved  her  with  the  words, 
"He  that  is  without  sin  ..."  she  says  nothing  at  all. 
We  have  to  explain  to  ourselves  how  this  super- 
cilious prostitute  should  leave  her  powerful  Roman 
friends  and  go  down  to  listen  to  the  man  whom 
she  had  thought  a  noisome  and  thieving  vagabond. 
Certainly  a  prose  sketch  like  the  "  Portrait  of  a 
Lady  "  would  have  done  all  that  these  words  do, 
the  short  speeches  and  the  lengthy  stage  directions, 
i.e.  to  produce  a  picture  of  a  beautiful  and  luxurious 
woman,  languidly  proud  but  still  young,  silenced 
and  solemnized  by  the  voice  of  a  wandering 
religious  Jew  saying,  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit."  There  is,  however,  one  important  indica- 
tion near  the  beginning  of  the  play  :  Verus  tells 


"MARY    MAGDALENE"  297 

Silanus  that  Mary  had  repulsed  him  with  "  a  harsh 
gentleness"  mingled  with  "a  certain  incompre- 
hensible dread,"  and  that  "  she  seemed  to  have 
suffered  a  great  sorrow,  for  which  she  has  already, 
I  hear,  consoled  herself  more  than  once."  But  in 
the  second  act  the  emotion  of  the  first  seems 
to  have  turned  all  to  love  of  Verus :  she  now 
realizes  that  Verus  was  her  destined  lover  long 
before.  She  is  at  once  "glad  and  light-hearted 
and  yet  more  shattered  than  if  all  the  misfortunes 
that  hover  in  the  skies  were  about  to  burst  over 
me."  She  feels  a  danger,  she  knows  not  what  it  is. 
The  name  of  the  Nazarene  comes  up  again,  but 
still  she  wants  to  fly  from  this  danger,  from  this 
land  where  she  suffocates.  She  begins  to  fear  that 
the  life  of  the  Nazarene  is  in  danger,  and  tells 
Verus  that  he  owes  him  her  life  and  their  happiness. 
Verus  suspects  at  once,  but  she  quiets  him  with  a 
sobbing  "  I  love  you."  The  story  of  Lazarus 
compels  her  soon  afterwards  to  think  again  of  the 
Nazarene,  and  she  hardly  speaks  during  the  long 
narration  except  in  brief  questions,  one  of  them, 
when  Mary  Cleophas  is  mentioned  as  one  who 
never  leaves  the  master,  being  "Is  she -young?" 
As  a  short  story,  this  might  have  ranked  with 
Flaubert's  "  Herodias."  But  only  at  the  end  of  it 
does  the  drama  begin,  to  be  seriously  retarded  by 
the  apparent  necessity  of  making  perfectly  pictorial 
the  scene  where  Lazarus  comes  to  call  Mary. 
Things  are  seen  to  happen,  but  how  remains  a 
mystery.  Surely  the  method  of  the  short  story 
may  be  said  to  prevail  in  the  third  scene,  where, 


298  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

for  example,  the  slaves  of  Mary  Magdalene  form  up 
to  block  the  way  of  Lazarus  ;  "  but,"  says  the  stage 
direction,  "  at  the  approach  of  the  man  risen  from 
the  dead,  who  seems  unaware  of  their  presence, 
they  fall  back  silently,  one  after  the  other."  Here, 
as  in  the  scene  where  Mary  first  hears  Jesus,  she 
hardly  speaks.  Maeterlinck's  object  has  been  to 
produce  a  living  picture  for  the  stage,  a  tableau, 
where  as  few  words  as  possible  are  used  and  the 
condition  of  silence  is  approached.  In  many 
places  the  characters  show  themselves  fond  of  clear 
visual  images,  like  Maeterlinck,  and  willing  to 
express  them  in  words,  as  when  Verus  asks 
Silanus  if  he  means  "  The  villa  with  the  wide  white 
steps  leading  to  a  semicircular  colonnade  adorned 
with  statues."  Verus  introduces  the  medium  of 
speech  where  Mary  is  giving  way ;  as  he  says 
himself,  "  Roman  reason  does  not  waver,  like  the 
rest,  at  the  first  foul  breath  that  issues  from  a 
tomb."  He  commands  Lazarus  to  let  his  master 
know  that  "  his  life,  which  will  not  be  a  long  one, 
after  what  he  has  done,  lies  wholly  in  this  hand 
which  drives  you  hence."  Mary  still  struggles  to 
go,  until  Verus  bids  her  "  Go,  since  you  love  him." 
"  No,  No !  ...  I  love  you,  but  he  ...  it  is  a 
different  thing,"  she  tries  to  explain.  Instead  of 
this  silence, so  different  from  the  "  gracious  silence" 
of  Virgilia,  an  earlier  dramatist  would  have  let  the 
words  as  nearly  as  possible  tell  the  audience  what 
in  real  life  the  woman  could  hardly  have  told  her 
lover :  such  is  the  ancient  convention  of  dramatic 
poetry.  But  here  Mary  remains  inarticulate.  In 


"MARY  MAGDALENE"  299 

the  greater  part  of  the  play  she  represents  the 
silence  of  the  spirit's  profundity  in  contrast  with 
the  Roman  eloquence  of  the  intellect.  She  goes 
out  after  Lazarus  ;  and  Appius,  after  a  long  pause, 
exclaims,  "  We  have  this  day  seen  more  than  one 
thing  that  we  had  not  seen  before  "  ;  and  Silanus  : 
"  It  is  true,  Appius,  and  this  is  as  surprising  as  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead."  In  this  scene,  as  in  the 
next  act,  Verus  is  much  like  Guido  Colonna  and 
Mary  like  Monna  Vanna.  Both  men  are  honourable 
men,  dignified,  high-minded  men  of  rigid  and 
customary  views.  They  are  protective,  and  still 
more  possessive,  towards  their  women,  and  begin 
by  assuming  that  the  women  will  not  think  or 
question  or  be  troubled  in  their  benignant  shade. 
The  women  try  to  convince  them  that  their 
proposed  independence  in  one  matter  does  not 
imply  severance  and  indifference.  The  men 
protest  that  they  must  have  all  or  nothing,  and  at 
once.  The  women  sadly  and  decidedly  go  their 
way  under  the  anger  and  contumely  of  the  men. 

The  first  scene  of  the  third  act  is  a  less  stately 
but  still  finer  picture,  and  it  is  not  a  tableau  with 
accessory  words,  but  drawn,  like  "  Les  Aveugles," 
in  simplicity,  yet  intense  without  monotony,  and 
restlessly  alive  instead  of  lulled  in  a  sleepy  sub- 
mission of  numb  despair.  They  are  crowded  mutter- 
ing and  whispering  together  in  the  candle-lit  room 
after  the  news  of  Jesus'  arrest : 

A  Man  cured  by  a  miracle.  It  is  not  well  that 
we  should  be  found  together.  .  .  . 


300  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

Nicodemus.   Where  will  you  go  ? 

A  Man  cured  by  a  miracle.  No  matter  where.  .  .  . 
We  shall  be  safer  than  here.  .  .  . 

Another.  They  do  not  know  us.  ...  I  have 
never  been  seen  with  him.  .  .  . 

A  Woman.  Nor  I  either  :  he  just  simply  healed 
me.  ...  I  was  bowed  together,  and  he  made  me 
straight.  .  .  . 

A  Man.  I  saw  him  only  once  :  it  was  when  he 
said  to  me,  "  Arise,  and  take  up  thy  bed,  and  go 
thy  way  into  thine  house."  I  am  he  whom  they 
let  down  through  the  roof  upon  a  bed.  .  .  .  Now  I 
walk  like  other  men.  .  .  .  (He  turns  to  the  door 
and  goes  out,  followed  by  those  cured  by  miracles 
who  spoke  before  him.} 

A  Sick  Man.  They  are  right.  .  .  .  We  are  not 
known  either.  ...  I  came  to  be  healed  of  a 
dysentery.  ...  I  have  not  had  time  to  touch  him. 
(He  also  makes  for  the  door.) 

Martha.    Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  .  .  . 

The  Sick  Man  (stopping  on  the  threshold}.  Of 
what?  ...  It  serves  no  purpose  that  those  whom 
he  has  healed  should  perish  because  of  him. 
He  goes  out.) 

Another  Man  cured  by  a  miracle.  He  can  do 
nothing  for  us,  because  he  can  do  nothing  for  him- 
self :  and  we  can  do  nothing  for  him. 

Now  at  length  Mary — she  has  been  "  mad  with 
grief,"  says  Martha,  and  they  fear  that  she  will 
bring  misfortune — is  thoroughly  alive.  She  comes 
in  upon  the  crowd  of  the  skulking  and  the  timid, 
an  imperious,  distracted  woman,  barefooted  and  in 
torn  garments.  She  can  think  only  of  an  armed 
attempt  at  deliverance,  "  if  Verus  does  not  deliver 


"MARY  MAGDALENE"  301 

him."  If  only  she  had  had  five  or  six  more  when 
they  took  him  to  Caiaphas — only  two  soldiers  and 
two  sergeants  from  the  Temple  !  "  We  save  those 
whom  we  love,"  she  tells  Joseph  of  Arimathaea ; 
"  we  listen  to  them  afterwards."  She  speaks  easily 
now,  dominating  the  room  with  her  boldness  and 
her  scorn.  Joseph  tries  to  silence  her  by  bidding 
her  reflect  that  if  he  heard  her.  ..."  Well,"  she 
says  : 

" '  Well,  if  he  heard  me,  it  would  be  as  on  the  day 
when  that  one  among  you  whom  you  all  resemble 
reproached  me  with  anointing  his  feet  with  too 
costly  an  ointment !  .  .  .  Have  you  forgotten  what 
he  said  ?  .  .  .  Whom  did  he  declare  to  be  right?  .  .  . 
You  have  understood  nothing  !  .  .  .  For  months 
and  years  you  have  lived  in  his  light ;  and  not  one 
of  you  has  the  least  idea  of  what  I  said,  because 
I  loved  him — I  who  did  not  come  until  the  eleventh 
hour,  I  whom  he  drew  from  lower  than  the  lowest 
slave  of  the  lowest  among  you  all ! ' " 

She  runs  to  Verus  as  trustfully  as  Monna  Vanna 
returning  to  Guido.  She  thinks  that  he  is  going 
to  lead  her  and  the  timid  to  rescue  their  master. 
When  he  is  alone  with  her  he  sarcastically  refers 
to  her  company  of  "  cripples,  vagrants,  and  evil- 
smelling  sick  people."  However,  "  that  no  longer 
concerns  me,"  he  adds.  He  knew  what  was  hap- 
pening, and  was  biding  his  time.  "  How  good  and 
generous  you  are  !  "  says  Mary.  It  seems  to  her 
as  if  Rome  herself  were  protecting  them,  and  "  that 
your  arms,  which  can  do  all  things,  cannot  abandon 
him."  But  if  Verus  is  "  good  and  generous,"  it  is 


302  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

"  in  his  own  manner,"  he  says.  She  continues  to 
misunderstand  him,  and  when  she  begins  a  sentence 
with,  "  There  is  no  excuse  for  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation ;  it  would  be  monstrous,  .  .  ."  he  has  to 
pervert  it  by  repeating  it  and  adding,  "  Shall  I,  to 
snatch  a  favoured  rival  from  a  well  merited  death, 
for  the  second  time  lose  the  only  woman  whom  I 
love  or  can  love?"  He  thinks  that  if  he  saves 
Jesus  that  man  will  drag  her  down  to  the  depths 
of  "  folly  and  wretchedness."  If  Jesus  perishes, 
then  she  may  "  return  to  the  light,"  and  "  many 
roads,  as  you  well  know,  lead  to  Rome."  She 
cannot  believe  that  he  will  destroy  Jesus  in  re- 
venge for  the  supposed  injury.  There  must  be 
something  else.  Verus  is  perfectly  articulate  : 

"  '  Have  you  not  understood  that  it  is  you  I  want, 
you  alone,  and  all  of  you  ;  that  I  have  wanted  you 
for  years  ;  and  that  this  is  my  hour?  ...  It  is  not 
beautiful,  I  know,  and  it  is  not  as  I  dreamt  it !  ... 
But  it  is  all  I  have,  and  a  man  takes  what  he  can 
to  make  his  life !  .  .  .  We  stand  here  face  to  face 
with  our  two  madnesses,  which  are  more  powerful 
than  ourselves,  and  cannot  recede  ;  we  must  come 
to  an  understanding  !  .  .  .  The  more  you  love 
him,  the  more  I  love  you  ;  the  more  you  wish  to 
save  him,  the  more  I  wish  to  destroy  him!  We 
must  come  to  an  understanding  !  .  .  .  You  want 
his  life,  I  want  mine  ;  and  you  shall  have  his  life ; 
but  I  shall  have  you,  before  he  escape  his  death.  .  . 
Is  it  understood  ?  .  .  .  Are  we  agreed  ?  .  .  .  Say 
No,  if  you  dare,  and  let  his  blood  be  upon  her 
who  has  brought  him  to  this  pass,  and  who  is 
destroying  him  twice  over  ! ' " 


"MARY   MAGDALENE"  303 

Her  awakening  is  like  Monna  Vanna's  when  she 
understands  her  husband  and  lies  for  Prinzivalle, 
and  unlies  it  again  with  at  first  hesitating  speech, 
then  calm  and  resolved :  the  meanness  and 
brutality  of  Verus  must  have  had  something  to  do 
with  her  refusal.  Verus's  "  madness "  does  not 
prevent  him  from  reminding  her  that  "  a  few  days 
ago  "  she  "  would  not  have  needed  so  much  urging." 
Also  what  he  wants,  or  what  he  is  willing  to  accept 
with  a  measure  of  content,  is  not  her  love,  not  any 
kind  of  life  with  her,  but  her  body  simply.  He 
says  :  "  Since  you  love  him  so  well,  is  his  life  not 
worth  a  slight  displeasure,  which  but  lately  would 
not  have  inspired  you  with  such  a  horror  ?  "  He  is 
not  too  "  mad  "  for  a  bargain  :  the  thought  of  a 
bargain  that  would  gain  anything  is  impossible  to 
her  ecstasy.  Even  Verus  is  impressed  by  her 
"  mad  and  terrified  eyes "  as  he  is  saying  these 
things.  Yet  he  can  still  claim  to  be  making  a 
great  sacrifice  to  love — a  claim  which  awakens  a 
sudden  outburst  from  Mary.  As  Vanna  bids  Guide 
look  in  her  eyes  to  see  her  truth,  so  Mary  bids 
Verus  "  Look  at  me  with  clearer  eyes,  and  you  shall 
perhaps  see  all  that  I  perceive  without  being  able 
to  tell  you  ! "  "  If  I  bought  his  life,"  she  says, 
"  at  the  price  which  you  offer,  all  that  he  wished, 
all  that  he  loved,  would  be  dead." 

She  says  that  what  Jesus  has  given  to  them 
is  much  more  than  his  life,  and  lives  more  in 
their  hearts  than  in  him.  It  is  not  a  question 
of  defiling  herself,  but  of  defiling  his  "  salvation," 
and  the  source  whence  all  purity  and  happi-, 


304  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

ness  and  all  life  will  spring.  And  thinking  that 
she  does  not  even  yet  love  him  as  he  should 
be  loved,  she  passes  into  an  ecstasy  and  says  : 
"  Verus,  Verus,  have  pity  ;  I  cannot  bear  it.  ... 
I  am  falling  !  .  .  .  Do  with  me  what  you  will  ! " 
The  man  catches  her  in  his  arms,  saying,  "I  knew." 
"  No,"  she  says,  regaining  strength  at  his  touch  and 
springing  back,  "  you  did  not  know."  Still  again 
she  implores  him,  and  she  will  be  his  slave  all  her 
life.  Then  he  summons  the  crowd  to  make  them 
hate  her,  and  she  tries  to  stop  him,  saying,  "  This 
is  not  worthy  of  you  !  "  And  so,  furiously  and 
vilely,  he  betrays  her  to  them.  When  at  last  he 
goes  out  after  her  final  silence  and  her  final  "  Go ! " 
when  Christ,  who  had  fallen  before  that  "  Go  ! " 
was  spoken  and  looked  up  at  the  window,  rises 
to  his  feet,  Verus  goes  out  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Magdalene,  "  who  remains  motionless,  as  though 
in  ecstasy,  and  all  illumined  with  the  light  of  the 
departing  torches." 

Another  sublime  tableau  !  Nor  are  the  words 
unworthy  :  they  do  not  merely  help  the  picture ; 
they  are  heard  rising  out  of  silence  at  the  call  of 
events  developing  before  our  eyes.  The  awakening 
of  Mary,  her  wavering  but  never  doubtful  struggle 
to  see  the  truth  and  to  express  it  convincingly  to 
Verus,  is  suggested  with  the  subtlest  fidelity  to 
feeling.  But,  though  Mary  speaks  freely  and  at 
some  length,  her  language  is  not  always  quite 
satisfying.  It  is  too  abstract,  it  is  too  much  like 
what  Maeterlinck  would  use  if  he  were  writing 
about  her  instead  of  putting  words  into  her  mouth. 


"MARY   MAGDALENE"  305 

Her  words  are  not  those  of  religious  passion  so 
much  as  of  a  metaphysician  describing  religious 
passion.  And  even  so  they  are  inadequate,  and  I 
do  not  understand  her  when  she  says  :  "  My 
God  !  ...  Is  it  not  Thou  alone  whom  I  defile 
to-day  in  defiling  Thy  salvation,  Thou,  the  very 
source  whence  the  source  of  all  purity  and  of 
every  happiness  and  of  every  life  will  spring  ? " 
Such  phrasing  comes  rather  from  the  defiled  stream 
of  common  religion  than  from  the  high  sources  ; 
it  is  at  most  a  second  best,  and  not  pure  imaginative 
speech,  though  it  cannot  prevent  Mary  Magdalene 
from  appearing  in  these  last  scenes  a  very  moving 
figure  of  a  woman  of  pleasure  burning  and  flaming 
unquenchably  with  religion.  In  the  earlier  scenes, 
also,  such  is  the  prestige  of  her  tradition,  she  cannot 
fail  to  be  impressive  when  the  right  actress  plays 
her  part.  The  other  characters  are  little  more  than 
background,  and  are  treated  with  an  exterior  care 
and  even  polish.  Verus  is  a  Roman,  and  he  is  a 
gentleman  ;  so  much  is  certain  :  yet  Maeterlinck 
does  him  perhaps  less  than  justice  in  making  him 
confuse  his  last  desperate  attempt  to  gain  some- 
thing with  the  "  madness  "  of  love  itself.  Silanus, 
who  is  not  carried  so  far,  is  in  this  same  exterior 
manner ;  in  another  play,  or,  better  still,  an 
imaginary  portrait,  his  character  would  have  earned 
the  applause  of  the  elegant,  especially  where  he 
refuses  to  be  disturbed,  like  Appius,  by  the  raising 
of  Lazarus  : 

" '  By  awaking  a  dead  man,  in  the  depth  of  his 
20 


306  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

grave,  he  shows  us  that  he  possesses  a  power 
greater  than  that  of  our  masters,  but  not  a  greater 
wisdom.  Let  us  await  everything  with  an  even 
mind.  It  is  not  difficult,  even  for  a  child,  to  discern 
that  which,  in  men's  words,  augments  or  increases 
the  love  of  virtue.  If  he  can  convince  me  that  I 
have  acted  wrong  until  to-day,  I  will  amend,  for 
I  seek  only  the  truth.  But,  if  all  the  dead  who 
people  these  valleys  were  to  rise  from  their  graves 
to  bear  witness,  in  his  name,  to  a  truth  less  high 
than  that  which  I  know,  I  would  not  believe  them. 
Whether  the  dead  sleep  or  wake,  I  will  not  give 
them  a  thought  unless  they  teach  me  to  make  a 
better  use  of  my  life.' " 

He  in  his  kind  is  nearer  perfection  than  Mary 
in  hers.  But  it  is  a  different  method,  and  the  two 
together,  though  so  often  admirable,  make  a  play 
worthy  of  deep  respect,  yet  an  exercise,  a  study, 
in  the  legend  of  Mary  Magdalene,  not  a  full  and 
sufficient  creation  ;  and  it  is  a  little  disconcerting 
to  see  the  hard  classic  grace  more  surely  handled 
than  the  romance  of  a  woman  who  might  have 
summed  all  that  Maeterlinck  has  divined  of  the 
soul's  beauty. 


XIX 

CONCLUSION 

MAETERLINCK  is  now  nearly  fifty,  and  it 
is  twenty  years  since  his  poems,  "  Serres 
Chaudes,"  and  his  first  play,  "  La  Princesse 
Maleine,"  appeared.  The  poems,  as  their  title 
declared,  were  of  a  hot-house  type  obscurely 
struggling  towards  the  free  air.  They  were  the 
vapours  and  bad  blood  of  youth,  more  uncon- 
ventional than  sincere,  expressed  in  the  manner 
of  the  symbolists,  but  with  a  personal  music  which 
at  its  best  seemed  about  to  turn  them  into  poems 
without  words.  They  were  interesting  then  only 
to  symbolists,  and  to-day  only  to  those  interested 
in  the  symbolists  and  in  Maeterlinck.  Two  or 
three  scenes  of  "  La  Princesse  Maleine "  had 
qualities  which  proved  to  be  enduring,  and  they 
dominated  his  work  for  six  or  seven  years.  These 
characteristic  scenes,  and  still  more  those  of  the 
succeeding  plays,  represent  with  a  numbed  and 
melancholy  intensity  the  littleness  of  men,  lost, 
ignorant,  and  powerless  amidst  the  forces  of  Nature 
and  their  own  kind.  Mary  Magdalene,  in  his  last 
play,  found  her  choice  difficult  for  "  a  poor  creature 

307 


308  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

born  on  this  earth,"  and  throughout  these  plays 
men  and  women — children,  very  old  or  blind 
persons,  doomed  lovers — are  poor  creatures  born 
on  this  earth  and  living  out  a  great  torture  upon  it 
which  Maeterlinck  turns  into  a  delicate  music  of 
grey  and  purple.  They  are  curious,  exceptional, 
beautiful  works,  having  all  the  intensity  which 
youth  is  apt  to  give  to  the  one  or  two  qualities 
which  in  its  own  opinion  distinguish  it,  to  the 
exclusion  of  others  often  more  profound  and 
lasting.  But  as  Maeterlinck  had  written  these 
plays  for  six  or  seven  years  in  spite  of  the  applause 
given  to  him  for  the  superficial  Shakespearean 
element  in  "  La  Princesse  Maleine,"  so,  though  he 
had  afterwards  won  applause  for  their  proper 
qualities  as  they  were  seen  in  books  and  on  the 
stage,  he  advanced  to  the  different  perfections  of 
"  Alladine  et  Palomides,"  "  Interieur,"  "  Pelleas  et 
Melisande,"  and  "  Aglavaine  et  Selysette,"  and 
then  wrote  no  more  of  the  kind. 

The  longer  speeches  of  the  plays,  especially 
those  spoken  by  the  old  men,  and  the  introduc- 
tions which  he  wrote  to  volumes  of  Emerson  and 
Ruysbroeck,  had  gradually  been  revealing  a 
philosopher  who  was  not  content  to  let  his  tragic 
marionettes  embody  his  conceptions.  "  Aglavaine 
et  Se'lysette "  was  even  a  little  overburdened  by 
the  reflections  of  the  characters.  But  in  the  same 
year  as  this  play  came  his  first  volume  of  essays, 
"  Le  Tremor  des  Humbles,"  which  made  it  clear 
that  he  had  found  another  way  of  expressing 
himself,  and!  that  he  was  willing  to  address  the 


MAURICE    MAETERLINCK 


CONCLUSION  309 

public  directly  as  a  philosopher.  He  appeared  as 
a  follower  of  Emerson  and  the  mystics  whose  chief 
business  was  to  proclaim  the  mystery  of  life,  the 
greatness  of  little  things,  the  beauty  of  all  common 
things  except  common  standards,  as  the  advocate 
of  new  standards  or  none  at  all,  in  the  conduct  and 
criticism  of  life.  This  he  did  in  the  gentlest  and 
most  refined  prose.  It  was  a  philosophy  of  the 
infinitely  little,  of  la  nuance,  the  passionate  evan- 
gelical extension  to  life  of  Verlaine's  doctrine  for 
poetry : 

Car  nous  voulons  la  nuance  encor. 
Pas  la  couleur,  rien  que  la  nuance. 
Oh  !  la  nuance  seule  fiance 
Le  reve  au  reve  et  la  flute  au  cor ! 

It  encouraged  charity  and  toleration,  more  anxious 
sympathy  and  more  hesitating  decisions  in  life. 
The  feeling  of  the  plays  for  the  "  poor  creature 
born  on  this  earth "  was  not  insistent,  but  it  was 
strong,  and  it  helped  to  explain  the  melancholy 
and  consumptive  fragility  of  the  work  with  all  its 
hopefulness.  The  next  book,  "  La  Sagesse  et  la 
Destined  "  marked  a  great  increase  of  confidence 
and  some  strength  in  the  essayist,  though  he  still 
regarded  man  as  the  destined  victim,  if  not  of 
Jupiter  and  Jehovah,  yet  of  unknown  and  more 
inexorable  gods,  nameless,  or  known  as  Destiny 
and  Nature.  Gradually  the  thought  has  grown 
that  man  can  achieve  the  most  difficult  things  by 
realizing  that  he  is  alone,  and  can  depend  only  on 
himself,  by  refusing  to  settle  down  under  crude 


310  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

codes  in  civil  and  private  life,  by  more  widely 
acknowledging  mystery,  yet  more  ardently  striving 
to  conquer  it  instead  of  denying  it,  by  seeking  to 
understand  and  enlarge  the  powers  which  affect 
our  lives  more  deeply  and  more  obscurely  than 
reason  can  do.  As  this  thought  has  developed  the 
thought  of  Nature's  hostility  has  declined,  and 
once  at  least  it  has  been  renounced  :  it  has  been 
revived  in  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  chiefly  for  its 
picturesqueness.  The  cardinal,  indefinite  mysteries 
of  life  which  gave  gloom  to  the  early  plays 
have  obsessed  him  less  and  less,  and  he  has 
tended  to  touch  only  upon  those  which  are  definite, 
and  will  listen  to  a  declaration  of  war  from 
the  human  intelligence — such  as  luck,  instinct, 
accident. 

The  plays,  and  even  the  early  essays,  had 
something  of  a  mute,  resigned,  religious  gloom. 
This  gave  way  before  a  freer  acceptance  of  modern 
life,  its  science,  its  political  interest,  its  progress 
by  means  of  legislation,  machinery,  invention,  and 
the  enlightenment  of  the  many.  Between  "  Le 
Tre"sor "  and  "  La  Sagesse  "  he  met,  says  Andre* 
Gide,  "  life  and  Nietzsche."  He  came,  and  he  has 
since  come  still  farther,  out  from  the  North's 
impressive  twilight  into  the  certain  light  and 
warmth  of  the  South.  He  came  to  see  man,  not  as 
a  poor  little  emmet  under  the  eyes  of  gods,  but  as 
a  majestic  and  subtle  being,  with  "  a  long,  noble 
road  before  him  under  the  stars."  He  has  thrown 
off  all  the  religious  trappings,  but  has  respected  what 
mysteries  they  covered,  and  though  he  accepts  no 


CONCLUSION  3" 

mystery,  new  or  old,  as  such,  he  is  aware  that  there 
is  still,  and  must  always  be,  mystery  on  the  right 
hand  or  on  the  left.  He  explains  nothing,  but  he 
is  afraid  of  nothing,  and  unashamed  of  being 
baffled.  He  is  a  materialist  in  his  attitude  only 
towards  what  is  known.  Nature,  that  once  seemed 
a  hostile  or  indifferent  mystery,  has  become  chiefly 
the  provider  of  pleasure  to  the  senses  of  a  buoyant 
and  curious  observer,  and  his  descriptions  are 
among  the  best  of  his  work  in  their  eloquence  and 
precision. 

His  descriptions,  reflections,  character-studies, 
narratives,  rhapsodies,  criticisms,  all  now  fall  easily 
into  the  kindly  and  popular  form  of  essays.  But 
during  his  fourteen  years  as  an  essayist  he  has 
written  six  plays.  He  has  become  a  dramatist 
with  a  strong  sense  of  the  pictorial,  and  a  master 
of  theatrical  effect.  His  plays  have  been  for  the 
most  part  in  harmony  with  his  essays,  and  he 
might  have  written  them  to  illustrate  the  essays, 
except  that  he  has  not — unless  in  "  Aglavaine  et 
Selysette" — touched  modern  life,  but  has  always 
brushed  aside  his  belief  in  a  new,  quiet  drama, 
which  is  to  replace  the  ostentatious  and  sounding 
old  drama,  and  has  chosen  legendary  or  ancient 
characters,  or  such  as  are  no  more  than  personifi- 
cations. But  with  his  stage  skill  and  inexhaustible 
fancy  he  can  seldom  succeed  in  being  dull,  while  in 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu "  he  has  produced  a  Christmas 
masterpiece  which  some  yet  hold  to  be  a  philo- 
sophy. He  has  only  failed  to  create  a  human 
character. 


312  MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

He  has  extraordinary  facility,  adroitness,  exu- 
berance, and  versatility.  He  is  an  experimental 
botanist,  an  apiarist  of  long  standing,  an  automo- 
bilist  capable  of  driving  himself,  a  mystic  moralist, 
a  playwright,  a  critic  of  letters,  a  topical  writer. 
Above  all,  he  is  an  artist  who  handles  with  equal 
skill  incorporeal  and  corporeal  things.  No  one 
can  be  harder  and  more  clear  in  depicting  a  scene 
or  a  flower.  No  one  can  be  more  light  and 
vaporous  in  treating  an  abstract  subject,  and  he 
thus  softens  his  impression  by  seeming  to  speak 
of  things  unrelated  to  experience  but  also  contrives 
an  entrance  for  his  perfectly  free  speculations 
into  minds  which  could  not  receive  them  in  a 
more  vital  form.  This  same  easiness,  perhaps,  has 
proved  incompatible  with  the  creation  of  a  human 
character  in  his  plays.  His  detached,  even,  and 
quite  uncontroversial  manner  make  him  a  valuable 
auxiliary  of  liberal  thought.  He  is  insidious  and 
insinuating,  but,  except  for  those  who  can  honestly 
follow  his  flights  from  beginning  to  end,  he  is 
not  bracing,  and  probably  fosters  a  combination 
of  tolerance  and  enlightened  inactivity.  So  free 
is  he  in  this  mild  boldness  that  he  might  seem, 
at  times,  to  be  careless  and  aimless  if  he  were 
not  so  obviously  an  optimist  content  with  the 
lines  of  modern  civilization  and  the  future  towards 
which  they  lead.  It  is  the  freedom,  perhaps,  of  a 
high-spirited  metaphysical  subtlety  rather  than  of 
mystic  intuition.  And  undoubtedly  he  has  a  verbal 
fertility  and  skill  which  might  take  a  few  phrases 
like  De  Musset's  "  Le  m£lodrame  est  bon  oil  Margot 


CONCLUSION  313 

a  pleure,"  and  "  Cette  reverie  qui  ne  pense  a  rien," 
and  William  Morris's — 


(Lips)  that  work 
As  though  her  soul  had  learned 
Deep  things  she  has  never  heard  of, 

and  make  out  of  them  his  philosophy  of  women 
and  children — "  the  silent  child  is  wiser  than  Marcus 
Aurelius  speaking."  Yet,  if  it  were  not  for  this 
sometimes  defective,  heady  exuberance  we  should 
never  have  had  essays  like  that  on  sundials,  or 
perhaps  much  of  "Le  Tre"sor  des  Humbles,"  where 
there  is  a  kind  of  courage  of  timidity  which  is 
beyond  braver  men.  He  has  less  of  this  than 
he  began  with,  and  he  is  now  an  idealist  whose 
ideal  is  the  development  of  the  human  spirit  as  it 
is  definitely  promised  by  to-day,  chiefly  by  science. 
He  is  confident  in  the  future,  and  not  troubled 
as  to  the  methods  of  reaching  it.  Things  are  too 
mysterious  to  be  judged  here,  and  he  is  content 
to  acknowledge  that  what  is  had  to  be  and  is 
right — to  show  how  it  is  right  is  part  of  his  task. 
His  thought  may  be  said  to  be  based  on  the  future, 
as  Tolstoy's  is  based  on  a  definite  epoch  in  the  past 
and  Ibsen's  on  the  present;  but  he  is  nearer  to 
Ibsen  in  that  he  sees  truth  rising,  if  at  all,  out  of 
the  crucible  of  things  as  they  are  ;  he  is  for  evolu- 
tion, and  not  revolution.  He  is  one  who  advocates 
more  than  he  originates,  whose  chief  gifts  are 
subtlety  in  amplifying  and  eloquence  in  expressing 
ideas,  who  is  thus  more  a  rhetorician  than  a 


3H  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

mystic,  though  he  deals  in  mystical  ideas.  He  is 
an  apostle  of  the  mystical  rights  of  men,  who 
extends  into  the  moral  and  spiritual  world  the 
doctrine  of  the  freedom  and  equality  of  all 
men. 


INDEX 


Abbess,  The  ("  Soeur  Bea- 
trice "),  178 

Ablamore  ("  Alladine  et  Palo- 
mides  "),  76,  77,  78,  80,  83, 
226 

Actaeon,  1 16 

"  Aglavaine  et  Selysette," 
date,  9,  177  ;  object  in 
writing,  106 ;  points  to 
f  utureand  past  of  M .  's  work, 
123  ;  analysis  of,  135-147  ; 
cp.  with  "  Princesse  Ma- 
leine,"  137;  with  "La 
Mort  de  Tintagiles,"  144  ; 
with  "  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande,  143  ;  with  "  In- 
t6rieur,"  137  ;  with  Ibsen's 
"  Doll's  House,"  145  ;  with 
song  in  "Deirdre,"  146,147; 
with  "  Monna  Vanna,"  228; 
eloquence  of,  170  ;  speaker 
overburdened  with  re- 
flections, 308  ;  touches 
modern  life,  311  ;  quoted, 

I37~i39,  142,  143;  r7  ; 
150  ;  228 

Agio  vale  ("La  Mort  de  Tin- 
tagiles "),  89,  98 

Albany,  Duke  of,  C.  H.  Spur- 
geon's  sermon  on  death 
of  compared  withM.'s  essay 
on  illness  of  Edward  VII., 
246 

Alcacer,  Battle  of  ;  "Brother 
Luiz  de  Sousa,"  71 


"  Alice  in  Wonderland,"  cp. 
with  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  273 

Alladine  ("  Ardiane  et  Barbe 
Bleu"),  183 

"  Alladine  et  Palomides," 
date  of,  7  ;  analysis  of,  76- 
84  ;  cp.  with  "  La  Mort  de 
Tintagiles,"  "  Les  Aveu- 
gles,"  88  ;  with  "  Monna 
Vanna,"  232  ;  with  essay 
in  "  Le  Double  Jardin," 
246 ;  Arthurian  names 
of,  98  ;  creation  of  a  poet 
turning  philosopher,  188  ; 
quoted,  77-84,  232  ;  17  ; 
137  ;  141  ;  146  ;  161  ;  169  ; 
183  ;  226 

Allan  ("  La  Princesse  Ma- 
leine  "),  41,  44 

Allegorical  value  of  "  Barbe 
Bleu/"  cp.  with  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  185 

Allegory  and  symbolism,  33 

Alma  Tadema,  Miss,  transla- 
tion of  "  Quinze  Chansons  " 
quoted,  128 

"  Amateur  Poacher  "  (Rich- 
ard Jeff  cries),  192 

Ambition,  M.'s  thoughts  on, 

159 

Ame  ("  Serres  Chaudes  "),  35 
Amiel ;    influence  on  M.,  n, 

167  \ 

Andrew  ("Mary  Magdalene  ), 

290 


315 


316 


MAURICE    MAETERLINCK 


"  Angels,  Song  of  the  "  (Wal- 
ter Hilton),  quoted,  30,  31 

Ann  of  Jutland,  Queen  ("  La 
Princesse  Maleine  "),  39- 
42,  140 

Annabella  (Ford's  "  "Tis 
Pity  she's  a  Whore"),  151 

"  Annabel  Lee  "  (E.  A.  Poe), 
resemblance  to  M.'s  early 
plays,  101  ;  quoted,  101, 
1 02 

Annaeus  Silanus  ("  Mary  Mag- 
dalene "),  287-289,  292- 

295. 297-299.  305 
Annas  ("  Mary  Magdalene  "), 

290 
Antichrist  (St.  Melito's   Key 

to  Bible),  29 
Antioch  ("  Mary  Magdalene' ' ), 

292 

Antoninus  Pius,  death  of,  156 
Apame,  19 
Aphrodite,  31 
Appius  ("Mary  Magdalene  "), 

288,  289,  293,  294,  295,  299, 

305 

"  Arabian  Nights,  The,"  M.'s 
opinion  on  injustice  to 
women  revealed  in,  217,220 

"  Arcadia  "  (Sidney's),  sym- 
bolism of  song  in,  cp.  with 
"  Serres  Chaudes,"  23  ; 
quoted,  24 

Archer,  Wm.,  translations  by, 
2  ;  quoted,  99,  104 

"  Ardiane  et  Bar  be  Bleue," 
date,  12,  177  ;  cp.  with 
"  Joyzelle,"  "  Sceur  Bea- 
trice," 14,  188  ;  with 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  15  ;  with 
"  Monna  Vanna,"  225  ; 
with  "  L'Intruse,  "  Interi- 
eur,"  239  ;  song  about  Or- 
lamonde's  five  daughters, 
123  ;  analysis  of,  182-185  > 
quoted,  182,  184 

Ariel,  191 


Arielle    ("Joyzelle"),     185- 

189,  191 

Arkel  ("  PellSas  et  Meli- 
sande  "),  61,  62,  64,  66,  68, 
69,  74,  81,  88,  94,  107,  143, 
150,  151,  228 

Arthur,  death-barge  of,  169 
"  Ascending     Effort,     The  " 
(Geo.    Bourne),    cp.    with 
"  Le  Double  Jardin,"  241  ; 
quoted,  242 
Astolaine  ("  Alladine  et  Palo- 

mides  "),  76-78,  81,  141 
"  Aucassin    and     Nicolete " 
cp.  with  M.'s  early  plays, 
104 
"  Auguries     of     Innocence " 

(Blake),  165 
"  Automobile,      En."        See 

Motor-car 
Avalon,  132 

"  Avertis,  Les,"  quoted  in 
illustration  of  M.'s  choice 
of  words,  1 68 

"  Aveugles,  Les,"  date,  6,  53  ; 
analysis  of,  45-50  ;  cp.  with 
"L'Intruse,"  50,  51,  53, 
56,  67  ;  with  "  Sept  Prin- 
cesses," 53,  56  ;  with  "  La 
Mort  de  Tintagiles,"  "  Al- 
ladine et  Palomides,"  88  ; 
with  "  The  Invisible  Good- 
ness," 150;  with  "Mary 
Magdalene,"  299  ;  quoted, 
47-49 

Babbitt,  Mr.  Irving,  quoted, 

164 
"  Ballad  of  a  Nun  "    (John 

Davidson),  177 
Balzac,  M.  on,  1 59 
Bar.     See  Maeterlinck 
Barbey    d'Aurevilly,  quoted, 

6 

Bartacus,  19 
Baudelaire,  quoted,  160 
Bedford  Park,  145 


INDEX 


"  Bedlam,  To  One  in  "  (Dow- 
son),  quoted,  160 

Beech,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  280,  284 

Behmen,  Jacob,  M.'s  interest 
in,  7,  in;  influence  on 
M.,  167,  175 

Bellangere  ("  La  Mort  de  Tin- 
tagiles  "),  89-91 

Bellidor  ("  Soeur  B6atrice  "), 
177, 181 

Berlmgot  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
268,  274,  285 

Berylune  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  ") 
268, 272-274,  276-278,  285 

"  Bessie  Bell,"  cp.  with 
"  Quinze  Chansons,"  129 

Bethany  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  292 

Blake,  167  ;  quoted,  165,  191 

"  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  A  " 
(Browning),  magical  intui- 
tion in,  1 66  ;  quoted,  167 

"Blue Bird."  See  "L'Oiseau 
Bleu  " 

"  Blue  Closet  "  (Wm.  Morris), 
cp.  with  "  Quinze  Chan- 
sons "  and  quoted,  131 

Borrow,  George,  cp.  with  M., 

195 

Boston,  1 1 6 

Bourne,  George.  See  "  As- 
cending Effort  " 

Boxing,  M.  on,  2,  236,248,265 

Bread  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
269, 270 

"  Bridal  Ballad  "  (Poe),  cp. 
with  "  Quinze  Chansons  " 
and  quoted,  130,  131 

Bronte,  Emily,  M.  on  the 
happiness  of,  158  ;  M.  on 
death  of,  173 

"  Brother  Luiz  de  Sousa  " 
(Viscount  de  Almeide  Gar- 
rett),  cp.  with  "  Pelleas  et 
Melisande,"  71  ;  quoted, 
71-74 


Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  cp.  with 
M.,  192 

Browning,  cp.  with  M.,  166  ; 
quoted,  154,  155,  166,  167 

"  Bruges  la  Morte  "  (Roden- 
bach),  9 

Brussels,  "  Les  Sept  Prin- 
cesses "  published  at,  7 

Buchner,  207 

"  Buried  Temple,  The."  See 
"  Le  Temple  Enseveli  " 

Burne-Jones,  M.  surrounded 
by  pictures  of,  4  ;  models 
of  like  "  Sept  Princesses," 
58  ;  "  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande," 103  ;  25  ;  57 

Burns,  28  ;    and  symbolism, 

33 
Butler,  irony  of,  203 

Caelius  ("  Mary  Magdalene  "), 
288 

Caiaphas  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  301 

Camelus  (St.  Melito's  Key 
to  Bible),  29 

Cappadocia,  Epicurean  of, 
inscription  on  wall,  quoted, 
165 

Carlyle,  influence  on  M.,  i, 
in,  148  ;  167  ;  cp.  with  M., 
8,  175  ;  quoted,  in,  148 

"  Century  of  French  Poets  " 
(F.  Y.  Eccles),  quoted  re 
symbolism,  20,  21 

"  Chance,  La  "  ("  Le  Temple 
Enseveli  "),  date  of,  208  ; 
human  power  of  foreknow- 
ing, 213  ;  on  women, 
quoted,  220  ;  13 

"  Character,"  Emerson's  es- 
say on,  translated  by  I. 
Will,  introduction  by  M. 
revealing  Emerson's  influ- 
ence, 113 

"  Chasses  Lasses,"  poem  in 
cypher,  quoted  as  charac- 


3x8 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 


teristic  of  French  sym- 
bolism, 23,  24 

Chaucer,  M.'s  knowledge  of,  I 

Children's  Happinesses 

("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  271 

Chinese  Poem  (from  "  Lute 
of  Jade  "),  quoted  re  sym- 
bolism, 21,  22 

Christ,  29,  257,  304 

Christabel  ("  Sept  Prin- 
cesses "),  54 

Chrysanthemums,  essay  on 
("  Le  Double  Jardin  "),  cp. 
with  "  La  Vie  des  Abeilles," 
250 

Cicero,  292 

"  City  in  the  Sea  "  (Poe),  cp. 
with  M.'s  early  plays, 
quoted,  102 

Civic  Guard  of  Ghent.  See 
under  Maeterlinck 

Claire   ("Sept  Princesses"), 

54. 

Claribella  ("  Sept  Princes- 
ses "),  54 

Cleophas,  Mary  ("  Mary  Mag- 
dalene "),  290,  291 

"  Climbing  Plants, "  192 

"  Cloche  a  Plongeur  " 
("  Serres  Chaudes  "),  35 

Coleridge,  influence  on  M.,  i, 
in  ;  M.'s  interest  in,  7, 
in  ;  99;  "Remorse" 
quoted  and  cp.  with 
"  Quinze  Chansons,"  129 

Colonna,  Guido  ("  Monna 
Vanna"),  223,  224-229,  232 

"  Compensation,"  Emerson's 
essay  on,  translated  by 
I.  Will ;  Introduction  by 
M.  revealing  Emerson's  in- 
fluence, 113 

"  Compleat  Angler,"  193 

"  Comus,"  cp.  with  "  La  Vie 
des  Abeilles,"  200 

"  Confidence,"  Emerson's  es- 
say on,  translated  by  I, 


Will,  with  Introduction  by 
M.,  113 

Conrad's,  Joseph,  "  A  Point 
of  Honour "  cp.  with 
"  Iiloge  de  I'l^pee,"  237 

Coquelin,  Ain6,  M.'s  refusal 
to  allow  him  to  adapt 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  15 

Cowley,  passage  in  "  Life  of 
Bee"  cp.  with,  195 

Cowper,  1 60 

Cranmer  Byng's  "  Lute  of 
Jade  "  quoted  re  symbol- 
ism, 21 

"  Cristina  "  (Browning) 

quoted  and  cp.  with  "  On 
Women,"  166 

"  Cruel  Brother,  The," 
quoted  and  cp.  with 
"  Quinze  Chansons,"  128 

Cyprus  ("Mary  Magdalene  "), 
293 

Daddy  Tyl  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  273 

Davidson,  John,  177  ;  220  ; 
"  King  Mammon  "  cp.  with 
"  Le  Double  Jardin," 
"  Gospels  of  Anarchy,"  and 
quoted,  243 

Davies,  W.  H.,  241  ;  quoted, 
47 

Death  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
269 

Debussy  sets  "  Pelleas  et 
Melisande  "  to  music,  M.'s 
lack  of  interest  in,  12 

Decadence,  23 

"  Deirdre  "  (Yeats),  song  in 
cp.  with  "  Algavaine  et 
Selysette  ";  quoted,  146, 147 

De  la  Condamine,  Robert, 
quoted,  218,  219 

De  la  Mare,  Walter,  241  ; 
"  Three  Mulla  Mulgars  " 
cp.  with  "  L'Oiseau  Bleu," 
273 


INDEX 


"  D'Elormie  "  (Poe),  quoted 
in  comparison  with 

"  Douze  Chansons,"  129, 
130 

De  Mattos,  Teixeira,  transla- 
tions of,  2 

De  Musset,  cp.  with  M., 
quoted,  312,  313 

De  Nerval,  Gerard,  M.  on 
sonnets  of,  18  ;  quoted,  19 

De  Quincey,  comparison  of 
passage  in  ' '  Opium  Eater  ' ' 
with  "  Alladine  et  Palo- 
mides,"  82  ;  of  passages  in 
"  Suspiria  de  Profundis  " 
and  "  English  Mail-coach  " 
with  "  Interieur "  and 
"  Serres  Chaudes,"  86  ; 
cp.  of  effect  of  passage  in 
"  Opium  Eater  "  with  M.'s 
plays,  99  ;  of  passage  in 
essay  on  "  Macbeth  "  with 
M.'s  thoughts,  1 66  ;  "  Gods 
of  War  "  cp.  with,  264  ; 
quoted,  81-83,  86,  87,  99, 
100,  1 66 

Desdemona,  117 

Deucalion,  29 

Devil,  The,  29 

Dionysus  the  Areopagite, 
M.'s  interest  in,  7,  n 

"  Disciples  at  Sais  "  (Novalis), 
published  with  Introduc- 
tion by  M.  revealing  Emer- 
son's influence,  7,  116; 
quoted,  121 

"  Doll's  House  "  (Ibsen)  cp. 
with  "  Aglavaine  et  S61y- 
sette,"  145 

"  Double  Jar  din,  Le,"  sub- 
jects of,  14  ;  date  of,  235  ; 
analysis  of,  235-253  ; 
quoted,  236-238,  240,  241, 
245,  248,  249,  251,  252  ; 
cp.  with  "  Le  Tr6sor," 
"  La  Sagesse,"  "  Le  Tem- 
ple," 255  ;  with  "  The  As- 


cending Effort,"  241,  242  ; 
with  John  Davidson's 
"  King  Mammon,"  243  ; 
with  "  Gospels  of  Anar- 
chy," 244  ;  with  "  La  Vie 
des  Abeilles,"  250 ;  with 
Herrick,  251  ;  with  W.  H. 
Hudson,  252  ;  with"  Fron- 
des Agrestes,"  "  Love's 
Meinie,"  253,  254,  255 

Doughty,  C.  M.,  241 

"  Douze  Chansons,"  date  of, 
altered  to  "  Quinze  Chan- 
sons," 10  ;  cp.  with  "  Bri- 
dal Ballad,  1 30 ;  with 
"  Blue  Closet,"  "  Two  Red 
Roses  Across  the  Moon," 
' '  The  Sailing  of  the  Sword, ' ' 
"  Shameful  Death,"  "  Near 
Avalon,"  131,  132  ;  95  ;  123 

Dowson,  Ernest,  quoted,  160 

"  Drame  Moderne,  Le  "  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  236 

"  Dreams,"  Piranesi's,  De 
Quincey 's  recollection  of 
Coleridge's  description 
quoted,  99,  100 

Dreyfus  case,  M.'s  opinion 
on,  217 

"  Duelling,"  essay  on.  See 
"  Eloge  de  1'Epee  " 

Early  plays,  characteristics 
of,  2,  95,  96,  99-101  ; 
analysis  of,  38-59 ;  M.'s 
own  opinion  on,  8,  9,  25, 
26,  105,  106,  185  ;  cp.  with 
"  Annabel  Lee,"  101  ;  and 
with  passage  in  "  Opium 
Eater,"  99  ;  with  dedica- 
tion of  "  Endymion,"  26 
Eccles,  F.  Y.,  quoted,  20,  21 
Edward  VII.,  essay  on  illness 
of,  235  ;  eloquence  of  cp. 
with  Spurgeon's  sermon  on 
death  of  Duke  of  Albany, 
247 


320 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


"  El  Desdichado  "  (De  Ner- 
val),  magic  of  cp.  with 
Taliesin's  song,  1 8  ;  quoted, 
19 

"  £loge  de  1'Iipee  "  ("  Le 
Double  Jar  din  ")  cp.  with 
Conrad's  "  A  Point  of 
Honour,"  237 

Emerson,  influence  on  M., 
in,  113-121,  148,  309; 
M.'s  criticism  of,  7,  116, 
163;  quoted,  114-117, 119, 
121  ;  cp.  with  M.,  7,  113- 
121,  163  ;  essays  translated 
into  French  by  I.  Will,  7, 
112,  113  ;  308 

"  Endymion  "  (Keats),  dedi- 
cation of,  cp.  with  M.'s 
early  plays,  quoted,  26 

"  English  Mail-coach  "  (De 
Quincey),  passage  in  cp. 
with  "  Interieur,"  quoted, 
86 

"  Ennui  "  ("  Serres  Chau- 
des"),  symbolism  of, 
quoted,  22,  37 

Epaminondas,  115,  116 

Epicurean  of  Cappadocia, 
quoted,  165,  166 

"  Erewhon  "  (Butler's),  irony 
of,  203 

Eugenics  (Sir  F.  Galton),  241, 
242  ;  quoted,  241 

Everest,  243 

"  Everlasting  Gospel"  (Blake) 
quoted,  165 

"  Evolution  of  Mystery  " 
("  Le  Temple  Enseveli  "), 
date  of,  13 

"  Fatality,"  Emerson's  essay 
on,  translated  by  I.  Will, 
Introduction  by  M.,  113 

"  Fauves  Lasses,"  symbolism 
of,  23 

Feathered  World,  The,  237 

Fenelon,  173 


Ferdinand  ("  Tempest  "),  191 
"  Feuillage  du  Coeur,"  sym- 
bolism of,  quoted,  32 
Fevrier,     Henry,     music    to 

"  Monna  Vanna,"  230 
Ficino    ("  Monna    Vanna  "), 

226 
"Field  Flowers"  ("  Le  Double 

Jardin"),  245,250  ;  quoted, 

251 

Fire  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  269 
Fireflies  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 

269 
"  Flaireurs,  Les"  (Charles  van 

Lerberghe),  description  of, 

59-60  ;  cp.  with  M.'s  plays, 

60 

Flaubert.     See  "  Herodias  " 
Ford,  John  ("  'Tis  Pity  she's 

a  Whore,"   translated    by 

M.),  quoted,  151,  152 
Fortnightly  Review,  208 
"  Fortune-telling,"  essay  on 

("  Le     Double     Jardin"), 

225,  236 
"  Frondes    Agrestes  "    (Rus- 

kin),  cp.  with  "  Le  Double 

Jardin,"  253 

Gaffer  Tyl  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  276,  282-284 

Galton,  Sir  Francis,  quoted, 
241,  242 

Genevieve  ("  Les  Sept  Prin- 
cesses "),  54 

Genevidve  ("  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande  "),  61 

"  Georgics  "  cp.  with  "  La 
Vie  des  Abeilles,"  193 

Ghent,  M.'s  education  at,  2  ; 
M.  returns  to,  4;  112  ;  in- 
fluence of  Ghent  on  M., 
116 

Ghosts  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
269 

Gide,  Andre,  on  "  LeTresor  " 
and  "  La  Sagesse,"  310 


INDEX 


Giovanni  ("  Tis  Pity  she's  a 
Whore  "),  151 

Godelard  ("  La  Princesse  Ma- 
leine  "),  39 

"  Gods  of  War  "  ("  L'lntelli- 
gence  des  Fleurs  ")  cp.  with 
De  Quincey  and  Victor 
Hugo,  264 

Goethe,  quoted,  32,  33 

Golaud  ("  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande  "),  61-68,  70,  75,  83, 
104 

"  Gospels  of  Anarchy  "  (Ver- 
non  Lee)  cp.  with  "  King 
Mammon  "  and  "  Le  Dou- 
ble Jardin,"  quoted,  244 

Graeme,  Robert,  162 

Graham,  Kenneth,  251 

Granny  Tyl  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269 

Grasse,  M.  spends  winter  near, 
15 

Great  Joys,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  271-274 

Grethel,  274 

Gronendal,  Ruysbroeck's  hut 
at,  108  ;  hermit  of,  112 

Guido.     See  Colonna 

Guyon,  M.  de,  Fenelon's  loy- 
alty to,  173 

"  Hamlet,"  influence  on  "  La 
Princesse  Maleine,"  42, 1 18; 
cp.  with  Christ  and  Marcus 
Aurelius,  156 

Hampstead,  145 

Harry,  Gerard,  2,  4 ;  58  ;  de- 
scription of  M.,  9  ;  on  hap- 
piness of  M.'s  marriage, 
12;  15  ;  on  M.'s  habits,  16, 
20;  on  "  Les  Flaireurs," 
88 

Haymarket  Theatre,  "  L'Ois- 
eau Bleu  "  performed  at, 
268 

Helen  ("  Sept  Princesses  "), 
54 

21 


Hello,  Ernest,  M.'s  interest 
in,  in,  118 

Heraclitus  of  Ephesus,  sym- 
bolism of,  31,  34 

Herbert,  George,  30 

"  Herodias  "  (Flaubert)  cp, 
with  "  Mary  Magdalene," 
297 

Herrick,  160  ;  cp.  with  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  251 

Hibbert  Journal,  inscription 
by  Epicurean  of  Cappa- 
docia  quoted  in,  165,  166 

Hilton,  Walter,quoted,3o,  31 

"  History  of  Modern  Paint- 
ing "  (Muther),  quoted,  140 

Hjalrnar  ("  La  Princesse  Ma- 
leine "),  39-44 

Homer,  31 

H6pital  ("  Serres  Chaudes  "), 
character  of,  34,  35 

Hop-o'-my-Thumb,  274 

Hours,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  268 

Hudson,  W.  H.,  cp.  as  a 
naturalist  to  M.,  200,  252  ; 
quoted,  252 

Hugo,  Victor,  cp.  with  "  Gods 
of  War,"  264 

Ibsen,  reasons  why  read  in 
England,  i  ;  106 ;  cp.  with 
M.,  145,  147,  313;  Arthur 
Symons  on,  153  ;  cp.  with 
Tolstoy,  313 

"  Interieur,"  date  of,  7  ; 
analysis  of,  84-88  ;  cp, 
with  "  Serres  Chaudes " 
and  passages  in  De  Quin- 
cey's  "  Opium  Eater," 
"  Suspiria  de  Profundis," 
"  English  Mail-coach,"  86  ; 
with  "  L'Intruse,"  96 ;  with 
"  Aglavaine  et  Selysette," 
137;  with  "  Ardiane  et 
Barbe  Bleue,"  "  Joyzelle," 
239,  308  ;  quoted,  85-88 


322 


"  In  the  Room "  (James 
Thomson),  cp.  with  "  L'ln- 
truse,"  quoted,  96 

"  Invisible  Goodness,  The  " 
("  Le  Tresor  "),  cp.  with 
"  Les  Aveugles,"  150 

Ivy,  The  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
270,  279 

James  ("  Mary  Magdalene  "), 
290 

James,  William,  quoted,  29, 
30 

Jefferies,  Richard,  cp.  with 
M.,  157,  205, 210-215,  262  ; 
quoted,  210,  211,  262 

Jehovah,  309 

Jericho,  291 

Jerusalem,  73,  293,  294 

Jesus  ("  Mary  Magdalene  **•), 
289-291, 295, 296,  298, 299, 
302,  303 

Jeune  Belgique,  La,  M.  con- 
tributes to,  3,  4 

"  John  Bull,"  274,  278 

Jordaens,  9 

Joseph  of  Arimathaea  ("  Mary 
Magdalene"),  290,  291,  301 

"  Joyzelle,"  2  ;  date  and 
qualities  of,  14 ;  analysis 
of,  185-191  ;  cp.  with 
"  Le  Temple,"  216;  with 
"  Sceur  Beatrice,"  "  La 
Morale  Mystique,"  234 ; 
with  essay  on  "  Sincerity  " 
in  "  Le  Double  Jardin," 
238  ;  with  "  L'Intruse  " 
and  "  Interieur,"  239 ; 
with  "  Monna  Vanna  "  and 
"  Mary  Magdalene,"  295  ; 
quoted,  186,  189-191,  202, 
282 

Judith  ("Monna  Vanna"), 
225,  229 

"  Jules  Laforgue  "  (Camille 
Mauclair),  M.'s  Introduc- 
tion to,  quoted,  152 


Julian  the  Apostate,  31 

Jupiter,  309 

Jupiter    (Shelley)    cp.    with 

Merlin  ("  Joyzelle  "),  190 
"  Justice,  La  "  ("  Le  Temple 

Enseveli  "),  date,  13,  208  ; 

cp.  with  "  Monna  Vanna," 

211  ;  210 ;  217  ;  221 

Kant,  influence  on  M.,  1 1 
Keats,  cp.  with  M.,  26,  28  ; 

quoted,  25 
Kingdom     of     the     Future 

("  L'Oiseau    Bleu  "),    272, 

276,  281, 283,  285 
"  Kingdom  of  Matter."    See 

"  La  Regne  de  Matiere  " 
King  Lear,  14;  118;  254 
"  King's  Threshold  "  (Yeats), 

cp.    with    "  L' Intelligence 

des  JFleurs  "   and  quoted, 

259 

Kipling,  2 
Knopff,  Fernand,  140 

"  Lady  of  Shalott  "  (Tenny- 
son) cp.  with  "  Quinze 
Chansons,"  129 

La  Fontaine,  194 

Lanc6or  ("  Joyzelle  "),  185- 
187,  189-191,  282 

Land  of  Memory  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  276,  282-284 

"  L'Avenir  "  ("  Le  Temple 
Enseveli  "),  208 

Lazarus  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  289,  290,  294,  297- 

299-  305 
Leblanc,  Georgette.     See  vide 

Maeterlinck 
Lee,  Vernon.     See  "  Gospels 

of  Anarchy  " 
Leneveu,    Georges,    on    M.'s 

hatred  of  notoriety,  6 
Leo   (St.   Melito's   "  Key  to 

Bible  "),  29 
Leonidas,  116 


INDEX 


323 


Le     Roy,     Gregoire,     meets 

M     3 

"L'Etoile"  ("  Le  Tresor  "), 
quoted,  162,  163 

Levi,  Eliphas,  influence  on 
M.,  ii 

Levi  the  publican  ("  Mary 
Magdalene  "),  290 

"  L' Evolution  du  Mystere  " 
("  Le  Temple  "),  208,  209, 
219  ;  wisdom  of,  221 

"  Life  is  Right,"  229,  230, 
233, 282 

"  Life  of  the  Bee."  See  "  La 
Vie  des  Abeilles  " 

"  Life  of  Flowers,"  subjects 
of,  14 

Light  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu"), 
269,  270,  272,  280,  285 

Lime.The  ("L'Oiseau  Bleu"), 
^80,  284 

"  Lines  written  in  dejection 
near  Naples  "  (Shelley),  93 

"  L'Inqui6tude  de  notre 
-  Morale  "  ( "  L'  I  ntelligence 
des  Fleurs  "),  254 

"  L' Intelligence  des  Fleurs," 
date  of,  254  ;  analysis  of, 
254-267  ;  cp.  with  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  255  ;  with 
Yeats' s  "  King's  Thres- 
hold," 259 ;  with  R. 
Jefferies,  262 ;  with  De 
Quincey  and  Victor  Hugo, 
264  ;  with  Ruskin,  267  ; 
quoted,  256,  258-261,  265, 
266 

"  L'Intruse,"  date  of,  6 ; 
analysis  of,  50-53  ;  cp. 
with  "  Les  Aveugles," 
"  Sept  Princesses,"  "  La 
Princesse  Maleine,"  56 ; 
with  "  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande,"  67  ;  with  "  Interi- 
eur,"  75,  96,  239  ;  with 
"  Barbe  Bleue,"  and  "  Joy- 
zelle,"  239  ;  with  J.Thom- 


son's "  In  the  Room,"  96  ; 
quoted,  51,  52  ;  94 

Lisbon,  72 

"  Little  Red  Riding  Hood," 
274 

"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  produced 
on  English  stage,  2  ;  date 
of,  acted  in  France  and 
Moscow,  M.'s  refusal  to 
allow  Coquelin  Aine  to 
adapt  it,  15  ;  Herbert 
Trench  on,  1 5  ;  analysis  of, 
269-286  ;  cp.  with  "  Peter 
Pan,"  "  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," Walter  de  la  Mare's 
"Three  Mulla  Mulgars," 
273;  with"MonnaVanna," 
277  ;  with  "  Le  Temple," 
282  ;  with  "  Serres  Chau- 
des,"  286;  thought  of,  310, 
311;  quoted, 268-273,  275- 
285 

London,  "  Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande "  produced  in  by 
M.  Lugne-Poe,  104; 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu "  pro- 
duced in,  268 

Longinus  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  293,  295 

"  L'Ornement  des  Noces 
Spirituelles  "  (Ruysbroeck) 
date  of  M.'s  translation  of, 
6,  107  ;  M.'s  warning,  107  ; 
quoted,  109,  112  ;  7 

"  Love's  Meinie  "  (Ruskin), 
cp.  with  "  Le  Double  Jar- 
din,"  253 

Lubbock,  Sir  John,  195 

Lucius  Verus  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  287-293,  295-305 

Luck,  13 

Lucrece  ("  Monna  Vanna  "), 
225,  229 

Lugne-Poe,  M.,  puts  "  Pelleas 
et  Melisande  "  on  stage,  7, 
104 

"  Lute   of  Jade  "   (Cranmer 


324 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


Byng),  quoted,   109,   112  ; 

re  symbolism,  21 
Luther,  quoted,  29 
Luxuries  ("  L'OiseauBleu  "), 

270,  271 
Lysander,  145 

"  McAndrew's  Hymn  "  (Kip- 
ling), i 

"  Macbeth,"  Mde  M.  acts  in 
M.'s  translation  of,  16 ; 
influence  on  "  La  Princesse 
Maleine,"  42,  53 

Mackail,  J.  W.,  on  "  Agla- 
vaine  et  Selysette,"  146  ; 
on  "  Pelleas  et  Melisande," 
104 

Madeleine  ("  Sept  Prin- 
cesses"), 54 

Maeterlinck,  M.  Biography: 
birth,  origin  of  name,  edu- 
cation at  College  of  St. 
Burke  at  Ghent,  2  ;  reads 
for  Bar,  goes  to  Paris,  3  ; 
returns  to  Ghent,  practises 
at  Bar,  loses  first  and  last 
cases,  leaves  Bar,  lives  at 
Oostacker,  tends  bees,  be- 
comes member  of  Civic 
Guard  at  Ghent,  4  ;  settles 
in  Paris,  8  ;  marries  Mde. 
Georgette  Leblanc,  10 ; 
happiness  of  marriage,  12  ; 
spends  winter  at  Quatre 
Chemins  and  summer  at 
Benedictine  Abbey  of  St. 
Wandille,  15.  His  appear- 
ance, 6,  9  ;  as  artist,  234  ; 
his  choice  of  Arthurian 
names,  62,  78,  135  ;  his 
choice  of  words,  168-171. 
Compared  with  Blake,  167  ; 
Borrow,  195  ;  Bourne, 
George,  242  ;  Browning, 
1 66  ;  Carlyle,  8, 175  ;  Cole- 
ridge, 129;  Joseph  Conrad, 
237  ;  Cowley,  195  ;  John 


Davidson,  243  ;  Walter 
de  la  Mare,  273  ;  De 
Mussett,  312,  313  ;  De 
Quincey,  83,  166,  264 ; 
Emerson,  7,  113-121,  163  ; 
Flaubert,  292  ;  Herrick, 

251  ;  W.  H.  Hudson,  200, 

252  ;  Victor    Hugo,    264  ; 
Ibsen,      145,      147,     313; 
R.  Jefferies,  157,  205,  210- 
215,  262  ;    Keats,  26,  28  ; 
Vernon  Lee,  244 ;  Milton, 
200;     Wm.    Morris,     131, 
132>    !33  I     Novalis,    121, 
131  ;  Rodenbach,  3  ;  Rus- 
kin,    175,    243,    253,    267  ; 
Ruysbroeck,  107,  108,  no; 
Statius,    195  ;     Tennyson, 
43,    125  ;     Tolstoy,    313  ; 
Traherne,    164 ;    Verlaine, 
309  ;      Virgil,     194,     195  ; 
Whitman,  152.     His  clear- 
ness cp.  with  obscurity  of 
mystics,  167  ;    craving  for 
tobacco,  16.     Criticisms  of 
M.   by  Wm.    Archer,    99, 
104  ;   by  Belgian  critic,  5  ; 
by  French  critic,  5,   no; 
by  Andr6  Gide,   310  ;    by 
Gerard  Harry,  5,   12  ;    by 
himself,  8,  9,  25,  26,   105, 
106,    185,    209 ;     by   Mde. 
Maeterlinck,  4,  16,  17,  104  ; 
by  Camille  Mauclair,  8  ;  by 
Octave    Mirbeau,    5  ;     by 
Edmond  Schure,  3,  9,  10, 
ii,  13,  232,  233  ;  by  Arthur 
Symons,  10,  18  ;    by  Her- 
bert Trench,  15.   Criticisms 
on  M.  by  Balzac,  159  ;   on 
de    Nerval's   sonnets,    18 ; 
on  Emerson,  7,  116,  163  ; 
on    the    Flemish    dialect, 
1 10  ;   on  Mallarme,  7  ;   on 
Marcus  Aurelius,  119;    on 
Novalis,  1 20  ;     on  Othello, 
117,  118  ;  on  his  own  plays, 


INDEX 


25,  26,  105,  106,  185,  209  ; 
on  Plato,  119  ;  on  Plotinus, 
119;  on  Ruysbroeck,  107, 
108,  no,  in  ;  on  Sweden- 
borg,  119;  on  Villiers  de 
L'Isle  Adam,  7.  English 
literature,  knowledge  of, 
extraordinary  experience 
of,  172.  Habits  of,  16  ; 
hobbies  of,  6,  12  ;  incon- 
sistency of,  248  ;  indiffer- 
ence to  material  surround- 
ings, 4 ;  indifference  to 
opera  and  lyrical  drama, 
12  ;  indifference  to  repre- 
sentation of  his  work,  6  ; 
dislike  of  interviewers,  5  ; 
lack  of  foundation  of,  173, 
221  ;  lack  of  irony,  2  ; 
appeal  to  middle  classes, 
161  ;  modesty  and  shyness 
of,  4,  5,  6  ;  optimism  of, 
173, 174,  236, 240, 244,  256, 
260,  312;  Paris,  influence 
of,  3 ;  reasons  of  popu- 
larity in  England,  i  ;  pre- 
sentiment of  death,  172  ; 
self-criticism  and  self-con- 
trol, 44  ;  sportsman  and 
Bohemian,  as,  6  ;  superla- 
tives of,  169  ;  becomes 
symbolist,  1 8 .  Thoughts  on : 
aims  of  life,  149,  158,  264  ; 
on  ambition,  159  ;  on  box- 
ing, 236,  248,  265  ;  on 
Emily  Bronte,  173  ;  on 
death,  150,  157,  247,  261, 
282,  283  ;  on  the  divine 
and  human,  174  ;  on  duel- 
ling, 247-250  ;  on  equality 
of  man,  151-153,  159,  174, 
175>  3J4  I  °n  essence  of  a 
poet,  20,  106  ;  on  the  fact 
of  living,  116,  120,  149, 
151,  152,  154,  157,  159, 
163,  173-175.  229,  230,  233, 
238,  244,  282  ;  on  false- 


hood, 159 ;  on  fatality,  105, 

156,  191,  210,  213,  214  ;  on 
God,    122,    173,    175;    on 
goodness,    158,    159 ;     on 
happiness,    157,    158,    171, 
173,  252  ;   on  hatred,  159  ; 
on  ideas,  219,  220  ;   on  in- 
stinct, 260,  263,  264  ;    on 
intuition,  169  ;    on  justice, 

157.  158,    211,    217,    247, 
248 ;    on  knowledge,   164, 
205,  240  ;    on  the  known, 
151  ;    on  liberty,  244  ;    on 
luck,    215 ;     on    mankind, 
113,    120,    150,    152,    159, 

204,  205,    210,    211,    212, 
237,    240,    244,    255,    256, 
257,    264,    266,    280,    307, 
308-310  ;  on  man's  actions, 
I5&>   J75.  257  ;    °n  man's 
soul,  149,  171  ;    on  man's 
thought,      158  ;      on     the 
middle  classes,    159,    161 ; 
on  moods,  7  ;  on  morality, 
156,  157,  240,  257,  258  ;  on 
mystics,  7,  107  ;  on  nature, 

205,  210-212,      234,      237, 
246,     279,     280,     307,     310, 

311';  on  vastness  of  nature, 
*57'  J59  ;  on  our  organs, 
114  ;  on  our  unconscious 
being,  214,  250  ;  on  the 
past,  215,  216,  282  ;  on  the 
peasant,  221  ;  on  influence 
of  Plato,  Swedenborg,  and 
Plotinus  on  peasant  soul, 
119;  on  poverty,  213,  220  ; 
on  presentiments,  172  ;  on 
reality,  158  ;  on  renuncia- 
tion, 157  ;  on  resignation, 
156  ;  on  royalty,  246,  247  ; 
on  sacrifice,  157  ;  on  sin- 
cerity, 238  ;  on  solitude, 
148,  149,  175,  245  ;  on 
sorrow,  157,  158 ;  on 
spiritual  phenomena,  171  ; 
on  tolerance,  158,  159  ;  on 


326 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


treachery,  159  ;  on  univer- 
sal suffrage,  244  ;  on  vege- 
tarian diet,  221  ;  on  vice, 
I58,  159  ;  on  wickedness, 
!59.  238  ;  on  wisdom,  156, 
157  ;  on  wisdom  of  a  child, 
119,  121,  149  ;  on  women, 
150,  220,  244,  245,  295 
Maeterlinck,  Mde.,  3 ;  4  ; 
quotes  letter  of  M.,  9  ; 
marriage,  10  ;  "  LaSagesse 
et  la  Destinee,"  dedicated 
to,  ii  ;  happiness  of  mar- 
riage, 12  ;  M.'s  praise  of, 
collaboration  in  thought 
with  M.,  1 1  ;  plays  in  M.'s 
translation  of  "  Macbeth," 
16  ;  on  habits  of  M.,  16, 

17 

Magdalena  ("  Brother  Luiz 
de  Sousa  "),  71-74 

Mallarme,  Stephane,  M.'s 
opinion  on,  7 

"  Mammon,  King."  See  John 
Davidson 

Manuel  de  Sousa  ("  Brother 
Luiz  de  Sousa  "),  71,  73 

Marcellos  ("  La  Princesse 
Maleine  "),  38,  39,  42 

Marcellus  ("  Sept  Princes- 
ses"), 54,  55,  57,  58 

Marco  ("  Monna  Vanna  "), 
2ii,  229,  230,  295 

Marcus  Aurelius ;  cp.  with  M., 
8  ;  influence  on  M.,  10, 
167;  M.'s  criticism  of,  119, 
121,  149,  217  ;  cp.  with 
Hamlet  and  CEdipus,  156; 
quoted,  217,  218  ;  313 

Maria  ("  Brother  Luiz  de 
Sousa  "),  71-73 

"  Mariana  in  the  Moated 
Grange  "  (Tennyson),  cp. 
with  "  La  Princesse  Ma- 
leine," 43  ;  with  "  Quinze 
Chansons,"  129 

"  Marionettes,    Three    Little 


Plays  for,"  7  ;   analysis  of, 
75-94,  209 
Mark     the    Evangelist     (St. 

Melito's  Key  to  Bible),  29 
Martha  ("  Interieur  "),  85,  88 
Martha  ("  Mary  Magdalene  " ), 

290,  291,  300 

Mary  ("  Interieur  "),  85,  87 
"  Mary     Gray "     cp.     with 

"  Quinze  Chansons,"  129 
"  Mary  Magdalene,"  date,  re- 
fused  licence   for   English 
stage,    incompleteness    of 
15  ;    analysis  of,  287-306 
cp.  with  "  Monna  Vanna,' 
295,  301  ;  with  "  Joyzelle,' 
295  ;  with  "  Les  Aveugles,' 
299  ;      quoted,     288-306  ; 

303  ;  307 

"  Massacre  of  Innocents," 
read  by  Le  Roy,  3  ;  9  ; 
objective  realistic  character 
of,  25 

Mauclair,  Camille,  puts 
"  Pelleas  et  Melisande  "  on 
stage,  7  ;  appreciation  of 
M.,  8,  152 

"  Medi tations  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius." See  Marcus  Aurelius 

Meleander  ("  Aglavaine  et 
Selysette"),  135-139,  141. 
144 

Meligraine  ("  Aglavaine  et 
Selysette"),  135,  136,  144 

Melisande  ("  Ardiane  et  Bar  be 
Bleu  "),  183 

Mercutio,  82 

Merlin  ("Joyzelle"),  185- 
190,  228,  282,  295 

Miall,  Bernard,  translator  of 
M.,  2 

Michelangelo,  240 

Milk  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  269 

Minerva,  292 

Minn6,  Georges,  M.  sur- 
rounded by  pictures  of,  4 

Miranda,  191 


INDEX 


327 


Mirbeau,  Octave,  praises  "  La 
Princesse  Maleine,"  5 

Mongan  (Yeats),  33,  34 

"  Monna  Vanna,"  date,  quali- 
ties of,  13  ;  freeness  from 
mannerisms,  14 ;  refused 
licence  for  English  stage, 
15  ;  quoted,  224,  225, 
230-232  ;  analysis  of,  225- 
234  ;  cp.  with  "  La  Jus- 
tice," 21 1  ;  with  "  Soeur 
B6atrice,"  225,  234  ;  with 
"  Le  Tr6sor  des  Humbles," 
224;  with  "  Barbe  Bleue," 
225  ;  with  "  Joyzelle,"  228, 
234  ;  with  "  Aglavaine  et 
Selysette,"  228  ;  with 
"  Pelleas  et  Melisande," 
228,  232  ;  with  "  Alladine 
et  Palomides,"  232  ;  with 
"  La  Morale  Mystique," 
234;  music  set  to  by  Henry 
Fevrier,  230 ;  Edouard 
Schureon,  232  ;  239  ;  277; 
295  ;  299  ;  301  ;  303 

Monte  Carlo,  essay  on  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  14,  235 

Mopsa  (Sidney's  "  Arca- 
dia "),  24 

"  Morale  Mystique,  La " 
("  Le  Tresor  "),  169,  172, 
234 ;  cp.  with  "  Soeur 
Beatrice,"  177;  with 
"  Joyzelle,"  234  ;  quoted, 
179,  160 

Morris,  Wm.,  cp.  with  M.,  63, 
104,  313  ;  "  Blue  Closet," 
"  Two  Red  Roses  Across 
the  Moon,"  "  Sailing  of 
the  Sword,"  "  Shameful 
Death,"  and  "  Near  Ava- 
lon,"  cp.  with  "  Quinze 
Chansons,"  131-133  ;  quo- 
ted, 131-133 

.  "  Mort  de  Tintagiles,  Le," 
date,  8  ;  analysis  of,  88- 
94  ;  set  to  music,  104  ;  cp. 


with    "  Sept    Princesses," 

75  ;    with   "  Aglavaine  et 

Selysette,"     144 ;    quoted, 

89-93 1  M.'s  favourite  play, 

94 
"  Mort  d'un  Petit  Chien,  La  " 

("  Le  Double  Jardin  "),236 
Moscow,    "  L'Oiseau    Bleu  " 

acted  at,  1 5 
Motor-car,  essay  on,  i,  6,  14, 

236  ;  quoted,  227,  238 
Mummy      Tyl      ("  L'Oiseau 

Bleu  "),  269,  271,  273 
Murray,  Prof.  Gilbert,  quoted, 

31,  166 

Musidorus  (Sidney's  "  Arca- 
dia "),  23 
Muther's  "  History  of  Modern 

Painting,"  quoted,  140 
"  My  Master"  (Geo.  Herbert), 

30 
Mysteries,    The    ("  L'Oiseau 

Bleu  "),  269 
Mystery  of  Justice.    See  "  La 

Justice  " 
Mystic   Morality.     Sea   "  La 

Morale  Mystique  " 
Mysticism,  107, 109,  167, 175, 

176,  266,  309,  314 
Mytyl    ("L'Oiseau    Bleu"), 

268,  274-276 

Nazarene,  The  ("  Mary  Mag- 
dalene "),  287-291,  293,297 

"  Near  Avalon."  See  Wm. 
Morris 

' '  New  Laokoon ' '  (Irving  Bab- 
bitt), quoted,  164 

Nicodemus  ("  Mary  Magda- 
lene "),  290,  300 

Nietzsche,  257,  310 

Night  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu "), 
269, 280 

Nora  (Ibsen's  "Doll's 
House  "),  145 

Novalis,  influence  on  M.,  7, 
in,  148,  167,  175  ;  M.'s 


328 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


translation  of,  116,  117  ; 
M.'s  criticism  of,  120  ;  cp. 
with  Emerson  and  Maeter- 
linck, 121 ;  quoted,  121,  122 

Oak,  The  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
270,  276,  279,  285 

CEdipus,  156 

Old-fashioned  flowers  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  2,  250 

"  On  the  knocking  at  the  gate 
in '  Macbeth ' "  (De  Quincey ) 
passage  in  cp,  with  M.'s 
thoughts,  116 

Oostacker,  M.'s  life  at,  2,  4 

Ophelia,  31 

"  Opium  Eater  "  (De  Quin- 
cey), passage  in  cp.  with 
"  Alladine  et  Palomides," 
82,  83  ;  quoted,  82,  83,  99, 
100 

Orlamonde  ("  Ardiane  et 
Barbe  Bleue "),  123,  125, 
182  ;  quoted,  125,  182 

Othello,  117,  118 

"  Over-Soul,  The,"  Emerson's 
essay,  translated  by  I.  Will, 
with  Introduction  by  M., 
quoted,  116,  117 

Palace  of  Happiness 
("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  270, 
274 

Palace  of  Night  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  280 

Pamela  (  Sidney's  "  Arca- 
dia"), song  to,  quoted  in 
illustration  of  French  "  de- 
cadence," 23,  24 

Paris,  M.  goes  to,  3  ;  M. 
settles  at,  8  ;  M.'s  life  at, 
9  ;  M.  meets  Villiers  de 
1'Isle  Adam  and  symbol- 
ists at,  1 8  ;  probable 
influence  on  "Serres 
Chaudes,"  25  ;  influence 
on  M.,  116 


Pascall,  M.'s  interest  in,  118  ; 
Emerson  on,  119;  influ- 
ence of  silence  of  infinite 
spaces  on,  175 

"  Passe,  Le  "  ("  Le  Temple 
Enseveli  "),  13,  208,  215, 
216 

"  Pelleas  et  Melisande,"  put 
on  stage,  7  ;  popularity  of, 
Schure's  opinion  of,  10  ; 
set  to  music  by  Debussy, 
12  ;  analysis  of,  62-74  ; 
cp.  with  "  Alladine  et 
Palomides,"  75,  78,  80-83, 
90,  188  ;  with"  L'Intruse," 
94  ;  with  "  Aucassin  and 
Nicolete,"  104  ;  with  "  In- 
t6rieur,"  94,  107  ;  with 
"  Brother  Luiz  de  Sousa," 
71  ;  with  "  Aglavaine  et 
S61ysette,"  143 ;  with 
"  Monna  Vanna,"  232  ; 
quoted,  62-70,  82,  127, 
128 ;  98  ;  103  ;  150  ;  151  ; 
161  ;  308 

Perfumes  of  Night,  The 
("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  269 

Perrault,  274 

"  Peter  Pan,"  cp.  with 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  2,  273 

"  Pilgrim's  Progress "  cp. 
with  "  Barbe  Bleue,"  185 

Piranesi's  Dreams,  99,  100 

Pisa,  223,  228 

Plato,  influence  on  M.,  7,  10, 
in,  167,  175  ;  119 

Platonists,  "  L'Ornement  des 
Noces  Spirituelles  "  trans- 
lated by  M.  for  a  few,  107 

Pleiads,  La,  started,  3  ;  prints 
"  Massacre  of  Innocents," 

4 
Plotinus,    influence    on    M., 

10,  in,  167,  175  ;   119 
Poe,  E.  A.,  quoted,  101,  102, 

130,  131  ;  cp.  withM.,  101, 

1 02  ;  "  Bridal  Ballad  "  cp. 


INDEX 


329 


vith  "  Douze  Chansons," 

130.  131 

"Poet,  The, "Emerson's  essay 
on,  translated  by  I.  Will, 

"3 

"  Point  of  Honour."  See 
Joseph  Conrad 

Porphyry,  influence  on  M.,  10, 
in,  167 

"  Portrait  of  a  Lady  "  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  235,  296 

"  Predestined,  The,"  Pathos 
of,  1 68,  172 

"  Princesse  Maleine,  La," 
date  of,  5  ;  Belgian  critic's 
remark  on,  5  ;  analysis  of, 
38-45  ;  cp.  with  "  Sept 
Princesses,"  56 ;  with  "  Les 
Flaireurs,"  58  ;  with  "  Pel- 
leas  et  M61isande,"  61  ; 
with  "Aglavaine  et  Sely- 
sette,"  137;  with  "  Alla- 
dine  et  Palomides,"  146  ; 
with  essay  in  "  Le  Double 
Jardin,"  246  ;  M.'s  criti- 
cism of,  105  ;  influence  of 
"  Hamlet "  and  "  Mac- 
beth "  on,  42  ;  influence  on 
M.'s  succeeding  works,  307; 
quoted,  44,  45,  150,  161  ; 
308  ;  17 

Prinzivalle  ("  Monna  Van- 
na "),  14,  223-227,  229- 
232,  303 

Prospero,  191,  251 

"Puss-in- Boots,"  274 

Quatre  Chemins,  M.  spends 
winter  at,  1 5 

"  Quinze  Chansons,"  date, 
10  ;  analysis  of,  123-134  ; 
quoted,  124-128,  133, 
134,  180  ;  cp.  with  "Bes- 
sie Bell,"  "  Mary  Gray," 
"  Mariana  in  the  Moated 
Grange,"  "  Lady  of  Sha- 
lott,"  and  song  in  "  Re- 


morse," 129  ;  with  Poe's 
"Bridal  Ballad,"  130; 
with  Wm.  Morris's  "  Blue 
Closet,"  "  Two  Red  Roses 
Across  the  Moon,"  "  The 
Sailing  of  the  Sword,"  131  ; 
with  Morris's  "  Shameful 
Death  "  and  "  Near  Ava- 
lon,"  132  ;  180 

"  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  "  (Brown- 
ing), cp.  with  "  Le  Tresor," 
quoted,  154,  155 

Radcliffe,  Mrs.,  38 

"  Rameaux  d'Olivier  "  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  239,  240 

Rapunzel  (Wm.  Morris),  104 

"  Red  Deer,"  192 

Redon,  Odilon.M.  surrounded 
by  pictures  of,  4 

"  Rdgne  de  la  Matiere  "  ("  Le 
Temple  Enseveli"),  13, 
208, 221 

Regulus,  116 

"  Remorse  "  (Coleridge),  quo- 
ted and  cp.  with  "  Quinze 
Chansons,"  129 

"  R6veil  de  1'Ame,  Le,"  M. 
on  spiritual  phenomenon, 
quoted,  171 

Richard  Feverel,  82 

Riviera,  236 

Rodenbach,  cp.  with  M.,  3, 
9  ;  introduces  M.  to  La 
Jeune  Belgique,  4 

Rome,  235,  254,  293,  301,  302 

Rousseau,  164 

Rudel,  Joffroy,  224 

"Rural  Rides,"  192 

Ruskin,  influence  on  M.,  i, 
167;  cp.  with  M.,  175,  253, 
267  ;  31 

Ruysbroeck,  1' Admirable, 
M.'s  translation  of,  7,  107  ; 
influence  on  M.,  n,  148, 
167;  cp.  withM.,  112;  with 
Novalis,  7  ;  M.'s  criticism 


330 


MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 


of,  107,  108,  no,  in  ; 
Platonism,  Sufism,  Brah- 
minism,  and  Buddhism  of, 
1 08  ;  mysticism  of,  109  ; 
on  mystic  egotists,  153  ; 
quoted,  u,  108,  109,  153  ; 
10  ;  308 

"  Sagesse  et  la  Destinee,  La," 
date,  Schure's  remarks  on, 
causes  distress  amongst 
M.'s  disciples,  dedicated 
to  Mde.  de  Maeterlinck, 
u  ;  analysis  of,  155-176  ; 
quoted, 156,  157  ;  66  ;  208 

"  Sailing  of  the  Sword,  The." 
See  Win.  Morris 

St.  Burke,  M.'s  education  at, 

2,  3 

St.  Daniel  ("  Pell6as  et  Meli- 
sande  "),  127 

St.  Melito's  Key  to  Bible,  29 

St.  Michael  ("  Pell6as  et  Meli- 
sande  "),  127 

St.  Raphael  ("  Pelleas  et 
Melisande  "),  127 

St.  Victor,  Adam  de,  sym- 
bolism of,  29 

St.  Wandille,  Abbey  of,  M. 
spends  summer  at,  15,  16 

Sallustius,  opinion  of  world, 

3i 

"  Salut  au  Monde  "  (Whit- 
man), quoted  and  cp.  with 
"  Le  Tresor,"  152 

Schopenhauer,  influence  on 
M.,  in  ;  Emerson  on,  119 

Schure,  Edouard,  criticism  of 
M.,  3,  9-11,  13,  232,  233  ; 
quoted,  9 

"  Selborne,  History  of,"  192 

Selysette  ("  Adriane  et  Barbe 
Bleue  "),  183 

"  Sept  Princesses,  The," 
country  suggesting  scene 
of,  5  ;  date  of,  6  ;  pub- 
lished by  Lacomblez,  7  ; 


cp.  with  "  Le  Tresor,"  :o  ; 
with  "  Serres  Chaudes," 
54  ;  with  "  Hopital,"  35, 
36  ;  with  "  Pelleas  et  Me- 
lisande," 67,  82  ;  with"  Le 
Mort  de  Tintagiles,"  75  ; 
with  "  Alladine  et  Palo- 
mides,"  82  ;  with  "  Quinze 
Chansons,"  123  ;  analysis 
of,  53-60  ;  dream  charac- 
ter of,  95,  96  ;  quoted,  54, 
55.  57-6o,  82  ;  61  ;  62 
"  Serres  Chaudes,"  date,  4,  5; 
analysis  of,  18-37  :  CP- 
with  "  Sept  Princesses," 
54  ;  with  "  Alladine  et 
Palomides,"  82  ;  with"In- 
terieur,"  86  ;  with  "  Blue 
Bird,"  286  ;  quoted,  22,  26, 

27  ;  38  ;  95 ;  "o;  307 

Shades,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269 

Shakespeare,  cp.  with  M.,  5, 
8,  45  ;  influence  on  M.,  i, 
42,  53  ;  Emerson  on,  117  ; 
M.  on,  117,  118  ;  32 ;  129 

"  Shalott,  Lady  of  "  (Tenny- 
son), 129 

"  Shameful  Death."  See 
Wm.  Morris 

Shelley,  24,  93,  190 

"  Shepherd's  Life,  A  "  (W.  H, 
Hudson),  192 

Sicknesses,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu"),  269 

Sidney,  song  in  "  Arcadia  " 
cp.with  "  Serres  Chaudes," 
23,  24  ;  quoted,  24 

Silence  ("L'Oiseau  Bleu"), 
269 

Simon  ("  Mary  Magdalene  "), 
288-289,  295 

Simon  Zelotes  ("  Mary  Mag- 
dalene "),  290 

Sincerity,  Essay  on  ("  Le 
Double  Jardin  "),  235,  239 ; 
quoted,  238 


INDEX 


Sistine  Chapel,  240 

Sleep  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  269 

Sly,  Christopher,  261 

"  Sceur  Beatrice,"  date,  12  ; 
cp.  with  "  Barbe  Bleue," 
14,  234;  with  "Monna  Van- 
na,"  225,  234  ;  with  "  Joy- 
zelle,"  14,  187,  234  ;  with 
"  La  Morale  Mystique," 
234;  analysis  of ,  177-181  ; 
source  of  story,  177  ;  M.'s 
criticism  of,  185  ;  quoted, 
178,  180,  181 

Soignes,  Forest  of,  Ruys- 
broeck's  hut  in,  108 

"  Sources  des  Printemps " 
("  Le  Double  Jardin  "),  2, 
236 

Spinoza,  influence  on  M.,  n 

"  Spiritual  Laws,"  Emerson's 
essay  on,  translated  by 
Will,  113  ;  influence  on  M., 
113,  118 

Spurgeon,  C.  H.  See  Ed- 
ward VII. 

Stars,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269 

Statius,  passage  in  "  Life  of 
Bee  "  cp.  with,  191 

"  Story  of  my  Heart  " 
(Jefferies),  quoted  and  cp. 
with  "  Le  Temple  Ense- 
veli,"  210-215 

Sugar  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
269,  276 

"  Suspiria  de  Profundis  "  (De 
Quincey),  passage  in  cp. 
with  "  Interieur  "  and 
"  Serres  Chaudes,"  quoted, 
86 

Sutro,  Alfred,  translations  of, 
2,  170  ;  power  of  M.'s  elo- 
quence on,  170  ;  on  M. and 
Flemish  peasants,  172 

Swedenborg,  119 

Swinburne,  cp,  with  M.,  63 

Symbolism,    18,    20-24,    27, 


29-33.  37,  45,  49,  70,  71, 
80,  104, 184,  185,  307 
Symons,  Arthur,  on  "  Le 
Tr6sor,"  10 ;  on  symbol- 
ism, 1 8,  33  ;  on  Ibsen,  153; 
quoted,  10,  18,  33,  153 

Taliesin,  magic  of,  quoted 
and  cp.  with  De  Nerval's 
sonnets,  19 

"  Tears  in  the  Spring."  See 
"  Lute  of  Jade  " 

Telmo  ("  Brother  Luiz  de 
Sousa  "),  71,  72 

"  Temple  Enseveli,  The," 
date,  12,  13  ;  subjects  of, 
13  ;  cp.  with  "  Le  Tresor," 
12,  235,  310;  with  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  235,  239, 
247  ;  with  "  Blue  Bird," 
282  ;  analysis  of,  208-222  ; 
criticism  of  early  plays,  13, 
25  ;  quoted,  208,  212-216, 
220  ;  237  ;  309 

Tennyson,  43  ;   129 

Terneuzen,  2 

Terrors,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269 

"  Theatre,"  105 

Thompson,  Francis,  quoted 
and  cp.  with  M.,  160 

Thomson,  James,  "  In  the 
Room  "  cp.  with  "  L'ln- 
truse,"  96 

"  Three  Mulla  Mulgars  "  (W. 
de  la  Mare)  cp.  with 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  273 

Thyestes,  247 

Time  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu "), 
272,  281,  282 

"  'Tis  Pity  she's  a  Whore  " 
(John  Ford),  translated  by 
M.,  7  ;  quoted,  151,  152 

Tolstoy,  reasons  why  read  by 
English,  i  ;  cp.  with  Ibsen 
106,  313  ;  with  M.,  313; 
134 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 


"  To  One  in  Bedlam  "  (Ernest 
Dowson),  quoted,  160 

"  Traffics  and  Discoveries  " 
(Kipling),  2 

Traherne,  quoted,  66,  104 ; 
cp.  with  M.,  164 

Transparent  Dew  ("L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269 

Transvaal,  War  in  the,  M.'s 
opinion  on,  217 

Trees  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu "), 
270 

Trench,  Herbert,  on, 
"  L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  15  ;  sug- 
gests two  scenes  for  same, 
270  ;  285 

"  Tresor  des  Humbles,  Les  " 
date,  9,  208  ;  dedicated  to 
Mde.  de  Maeterlinck,  10 ; 
cp.  with  "  Le  Temple," 
13,  208  ;  with  "  Sceur  Bea- 
trice," 177  ;  with  "  Monna 
Vanna,"  224  ;  with  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  235  ;  with 
"La  Sagesse,"  235,  310; 
with  "L'Oiseau  Bleu,"  281; 
with  poem  of  Verlaine ; 
quoted,  162,  163  ;  analysis 
of,  149-176  ;  prophetic 
character  of,  123  ;  founda- 
tions of,  154  ;  ii  ;  12  ; 
66  ;  69  ;  112  ;  135  ;  209  ; 
239;  308;  313 

"  Two  Red  Roses  Across  the 
Moon."  See  Wm.  Morris 

Tylette,  the  Cat  ('  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  270,  273,  274, 
276,  278 

Tylo,  the  Dog  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  269,  270,  273,  274, 
276, 278,  280, 283 

Tyltyl  ("  L'Oiseau  Bleu  "), 
268-276,  280,  281,  283-285 

Uglyane     ("  La       Princesse 

Maleine  "),  39,  40,  43 
Ulysses,  216 


Unicornus  (St.  Meh'to's  Key 
to  Bible),  29 

"  UpperGarden,  The  "  (Robt. 
De  la  Condamine),  quoted 
in  illustration  of  anony- 
mous injustice,  218,  219 

"  Urn  Burial "  (Sir  T. 
Browne),  192 

Ursula  ("  Sept  Princesses  "), 

54,  55 
Utopia,  244 

Van  Lerberghe,  Chas.,  meets 
M.,  3  ;  analysis  of  his  play, 
"  Les  Flaireurs,"  58-60  ; 
cp.  with  "Sept  Princesses," 
58,60 

Venus  ("  Mary  Magdalene  "), 

293          , 

Verharen,  Emile,  meets  M.,  3 

Verlaine,  cp.  with  M.,  quo- 
ted, 309 

"  Vie  des  Abeilles,  La,"  re- 
conciles science  to  poetry, 
i  ;  date,  11  ;  analysis  of, 
192-207  ;  cp.  with  "  Geor- 
gics,"  193,  195  ;  with  "  Le 
Double  Jardin,"  250  ;  with 
Virgil,  Statius,  Cowley,  and 
Borrow,  195  ;  quoted,  194; 
202,  204  ;  1 3  ;  208  ;  209 

Villiers  de  I1  Isle  Adam,  meets 
M.  at  Paris,  3,  18  ;  M.'s 
opinion  on,  7 

Virgil.  See  "  La  Vie  des 
Abeilles." 

Virgilia,  298 

Virgin,  The  ("  Soeur  Bea- 
trice "),  177,  178,  180,  181 

Viscount  de  Almeide  Garrett's 
"  Brother  Luiz  de  Sousa," 

71-74 
Viviane  ("  Joyzelle  "),  187 

Wars  ("L'Oiseau  Bleu  "),  269 
Water    ("  L'Oiseau    Bleu  "), 
269 


INDEX 


333 


"  What  is  Art  ?  "  (Tolstoy), 

134 
Whitman,  cp.  with  M.  and 

quoted,  151,  152 
Will,  I.,  translates  Emerson's 

essays  into  French,  i,  112, 

"3 

Will-o'-the-Wisp  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu"),  269 

"  Wind  Among  the  Reeds  " 
(Yeats),  quoted  in  illustra- 
tion of  symbolism,  34 

"  Wisdom  and  Destiny."  See 
"  La  Sagesse  et  la  Desti- 
nee." 

Wolf,  The  ("  L'Oiseau 
Bleu  "),  280 

Wordsworth,  "  Highland 
Reaper "  as  a  symbol, 
22  ;  impressionism  of,  28 ; 
on  wisdom  of  a  child, 
1 64 ;  Christianity  of  Words- 
worth cp.  with  that  of 


M.,      173  ;     quoted,     163, 
164 

Yeats,  quoted,  32-34,  146, 
147  ;  on  symbolism,  32  ; 
as  poet  and  symbolist,  33, 
34  ;  song  in  "  Deirdre  " 
cp.  with  "  Algavaine 
et  Selysette,"  146 ; 
"  King's  Threshold  "  cp. 
with  "  L' Intelligence  des 
Fleurs,"  259  ;  241 

Ygraine  ("  La  Mort  de  Tinta- 
giles  "),  89-94,  96,  103,  161 

Ygraine  ("  Ardiane  et  Barbe 
Bleue  "),  183 

Yniold  ("  Pelleas  et  M6H- 
sande  "),  61,  63,  65,  68,  70 

Yssaline  ("  Aglavaine  et 
Selysette"),  137,  142,  143, 

145 

Ysselmonde  ("  La  Princesse 
Maleine  "),  39 


PRINTED    BY 
LONDON    AND  AYLESBURY. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


SKLF 
QL 


OCTOi  1990 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  052  806     7 


